The Past Is A Foreign Country
by Plurimisverbis
Summary: "Perhaps this is how she would die.."  T&Z - another version of Post Somalia  Rated M for Sex & Language.  No idea if it will be suitable for work - I guess that depends on what you're supposed to be doing instead of reading!
1. An Echo

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**I'm publishing this in parts – which I don't like to do as a general rule – because I've been kicking the theme around for ages and I'm not sure I've nailed it. Just about complete thought-wise – still tinkering with bits & pieces. I'll try not to make it too drawn out though. **

**The timeline does jump around – I was tied to a couple of specific points. It should [?] all make sense in the end….**

**Again, the specifics of what happened to Ziva will be left deliberately ambiguous – fill in whatever you like. **

**The cases are really just a backdrop – hopefully they make enough sense to provide a framework. And there's a very good reason I'm not asked to write for a t.v. show.**

**The other Mossad chap on the wharf in Somalia was un-credited – so I gave him a name, just to be polite. **

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"_An echo of the past in the future; a reflex from the future on the past"_

_Victor Hugo_

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Ziva's head hurt and, as she opened her eyes, the shimmering light stabbed in painfully. Her mouth was dry, pasty. She could taste blood and her throat was sore. It was hot, so hot, and stuffy – she could feel sweat trickling down her body. There was an odd, stale and dusty smell in her nostrils. It made the air seem even thicker and more suffocating. Most noticeable; it was strangely quiet. The only muffled noises she could hear were unfamiliar. Perhaps they had abandoned the camp. Perhaps they wouldn't kill her; just leave her. Perhaps this is how she would die; slowly and alone. Her back ached. Oddly, the skin didn't sting as it had done. Her arms were tied behind her. Yet, when she tried to move them, the chafed, raw patches on her wrists didn't announce their presence. Her hair seemed to be neatly braided. Something in her immediate impressions didn't make sense.

Her clothes were wrong too. Not the stained, torn cargo pants and tattered black t-shirt, nor the filthy man's shirt she had been wearing for – she didn't know how long at this point. Keeping track of time had waned into the realm of the futile and meaningless. An existential indulgence which served no purpose: if Mossad were interested in launching a rescue mission, it would have occurred by now. Only three people in the whole world knew, even vaguely, where she was: Eli, Malachi and Kaspit. Maybe the latter two hadn't made it out of Mogadishu alive – let alone reached Israel. Which would leave only Eli; his intelligence gathering operatus would have informed him she had not accomplished the mission. She had failed him. She had failed herself. And no-one would be coming to save her.

Despite the sunlight, she forced herself to open her eyes wider. Shadows danced and jumped around, tiny particles floated in the air. The faint shuffling sound grew louder. One of the shadows stopped flickering and lopsidedly loomed nearer. Ziva instinctively drew her legs up and found they, too, were bound but her feet weren't sore. Recoiling, shrinking away, she became was aware of her position - up against a pillar and sitting on the ground. It was puzzling. She didn't remember there being any pillars before. The floor she was sat upon was concrete; not dirt. Perhaps she had been left for longer than she realized and was already slipping into a dehydrated delirium.

Ziva squinted and blinked as she struggled to marshal the contradictory thoughts and perceptions in her mind. The dark shape stopped in front of her, its head to one side – like some strange, giant crow. Slowly the blurry outline coalesced into the form of a human figure.

"Thirsty?" The shadow inquired.

It was a man's voice; an American man's voice. Not one she recognized - a slightly Western, drawling accent.

Unreasonable relief flooded over her. Unreasonable: because, clearly, she was being held captive. Relief: because it was not in Somalia, as Saleem's prized prisoner. And self-reproach because she had been, briefly, frightened. She had permitted disorientation to revive memories which were neither to be recalled nor, were they to surface, cause a reaction.

She tried to clear her mind and piece the events together. It had been a routine call. An interview with someone, a person of interest, connected to their current case. Ziva and McGee had spent the day tracking him down to an abandoned building. Second Lieutenant Will Miller was a former Marine and, currently, homeless veteran. He had been suspicious but co-operative in answering their questions. There had seemed to be no danger and then, with sudden speed and unexpected strength, he had grabbed her. Expertly locking her in a sleeper hold and accessing her gun. Tony was going to tease her for the failure of her Ninja early warning system.

McGee had been caught by surprise as much as Ziva. Turning around from where he had been standing at a little distance from them; not quick enough to draw his weapon as he ordered Miller to release her. She also remembered the edge to Miller's voice as he assured McGee he could dispatch Ziva and still have time to drop Tim. Recognizing the confidence which, in many cases, would win the battle by itself; convince your opponent you not only could but would - without a second's thought. A strategy successfully employed by Ziva on many occasions. Bright flashes had burst and flashed before her eyes as the lack of oxygen took effect in a matter of seconds. The last thing she saw was the stunned, indecisive look on McGee's face as she lost consciousness.

"Are….you…thirsty?" Hesitant and uncertain: as if he was unused to conversing with people. "You must be thirsty?" Sounding as if he, whoever he might be, was as befuddled as Ziva.

"Yes." Ziva nodded.

Miller unscrewed the cap from a battered, military issue water canteen. He cautiously moved toward her, carefully avoiding the reach of Ziva's legs, and crouched down at her side - the maneuver slightly awkward and difficult. He held her head and placed the container against her lips. She rinsed her mouth with the first sip and spat out the gluey mix of blood and dust. Surprisingly, Miller gently dabbed at Ziva's mouth and chin with the collar of her shirt. Then he proffered the bottle a second time and she gratefully gulped down the cool water.

"Thank you." - casting a quick glance at her captor. He was not concealing his face. Normally, that would be an ominous indicator; kidnappers tend to kill anyone who might be able to identify them. However, the team already knew who was holding her. Moreover, Miller seemed concerned for her well-being.

"I'm sorry you hurt your face." Miller stood up, using the pillar to assist his movement. "My leg…" He gestured at his limb. "You hit your head when I was trying to set you down…"

"It is fine." She smiled reassuringly at him. "You did not mean to hurt me."

Ziva assessed her circumstances. They were in a different location to the one where the attack had unfolded. It was impossible to ascertain exactly how far they had traveled from the point of origin. Although she estimated it could not be any great distance due to Miller's lack of mobility. Ziva had no idea of the time. Judging by the quality of the sunlight pouring through dirty, broken panes of glass and a few gaping holes in the roof, it was early evening. Which would mean she had been with Miller for several hours; assuming McGee had returned to the Navy Yard, the search would have been launched instantly. She wondered about the fate of her cell; the GPS technology should be transmitting a signal.

"Not hurt." Adding almost half-heartedly, "but I can…will…if I have to…."

"I am a Federal Agent. I am certain you did not intend for this to happen." Ziva decided to ignore the attempted menace; keeping her voice calm and neutral. She might be able to persuade Miller to set her free of his own volition. "You should release me."

Ziva studied him. The military photograph had shown the man in earlier times. There was little trace of the fresh faced farm boy from Iowa in his features now. Remembering the details from his file; the commendations for bravery and the reason for his strange gait - wounded in Iraq by a roadside bomb. A terrible injury to his left leg had led to months in hospital, an honorable discharge and a fall through the cracks. Miller was only a few years older than herself and yet he appeared haggard and prematurely aged. Not just the result of a grinding, nomadic existence on the streets; there was a deeper disquiet to his manner. His eyes carried a muted torment.

"No." He limped away from her.

At present, Ziva accepted there were few available options for escape. Miller was obviously capable – despite being hampered by his wound. She was securely bound. He had cleverly utilized both twine and her handcuffs. And she was unarmed. He had taken her Sig., her back-up and her knife; in addition to any unknown weapons which might be in his possession. Until the advantage improved in her favor, the most advisable tactic was to remain passive.

"You have made a mistake. It would be better to remedy it now." She renewed her efforts at negotiation, "before there is any trouble."

Miller turned toward her, his expression anxious, muttering "A mistake…it was a mistake." He looked at Ziva. "I didn't see the mistake….no-one did. I told them, no-one saw the mistake….."

Ziva realized, with a sudden, growing sense of unease, her captor was more than physically damaged. Miller was mentally unstable which meant her predicament was more precarious than she had, initially, imagined. It was not possible to exert influence upon someone whose faculties for logic might be impaired. He would be grasping at reasoning which would be unpredictable and treacherous to follow.

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**As always, make of it what you will and hope you enjoy. Please do post a review if you have the time – I really appreciate them. Tell me what didn't work, what did or even you were bored rigid & I should stop!**


	2. Consequences

**A****/N: ****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Please note, again, the timeline will jump around – I was tied to a couple of specific points. It should [?] all make sense in the end….**

**And the usual about cases! **

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"_Consequences are unpitying."_

_George Eliot_

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**October 2009**

The day had developed as one of those glorious autumn gifts. The cool start followed by increasing, welcome warmth: summer hanging on by its fingernails. At this time on a Friday evening the building was normally sparsely populated. Today greater numbers of the occupants had discreetly sloped off as close to day's end as they could decently get away with - to take advantage of the lovely weather. And steal a head-start on the weekend. Those who were able created dentists appointments or unexpected domestic disasters.

Ziva was standing behind her chair, preparing to go home. Tony had been sat watching her for the past several minutes before, momentarily, disappearing from the squad-room. They had recently returned from a bust. It was an especially distasteful investigation; the smuggling and exploitation of human beings – women and young girls. Earlier in the week, Ziva had received her Probationary status. The release from weeks of, by her standards, ineffectual, desk-bound inactivity meant she had hurled herself into the ensuing mêlée with ferocious enthusiasm. Tony also surmised there was more than a little retributive relish to her conduct. Unusually, Gibbs had sent the pair back to the Navy Yard, whilst he and McGee tied up loose ends and fielded multi-jurisdictional headaches. NCIS had taken the lead because of the involvement of enlisted personnel – the nature of the crimes required the assistance of the FBI, DHS and several other agencies. The aftermath would be a complex matter of who wanted the most glory: who could shout the loudest and piss the farthest. Or, in the case of their Boss, bequeath the majority of the time-consuming paperwork and red-tape to someone else – willing to sacrifice public acclaim if it would save his MCRT that burdensome chore.

Tony nonchalantly approached her, holding something behind his back.

"Are you gonna tell me? Or do I have to guess?"

"Tell you what Tony?" Ziva picked up her bag and jacket – draping the latter over her arm – not looking at him.

"OK." Tony cocked his head to one side, studying her. "You're not gonna tell me." He placed a first-aid kit onto the desk with theatrical deliberation. His next declaration sounding like he was playing Eye-Spy. "I guess…you got hurt."

Ziva started to leave. "I do not know what you mean." Her voice was carefully even and it was clear she knew full well what he meant.

Tony placed himself in front of Ziva; blocking her path.

"You immediately put on an NCIS jacket after the fight. You hate those jackets."

"So?" The dismissive tone carried a small warning. "I was cold."

He gave her a skeptical look. "Yeah, you were cold on a warm day."

Ziva moved to exit around the other side.

"It was not warm inside."

Again, Tony blocked her route. Stepping closer and shutting down avenues of escape.

"You only got cold outside." He smiled in mocking, false surrender. "But, OK, we'll say you were cold."

Last Sunday, Tony had sprained fingers playing touch football. Gibbs had threatened to break them if the injury interfered with Tony doing his job. They were still taped – he held up his left hand. "You let me drive back."

Ziva's face was impassive; although a little annoyance began to flare as he persisted. "I offered…"

As she protested, Tony talked over her.

"That's right. You did _offer_." Faint sarcasm laced the last word. "Usually, your _offer_ would've involved physical force if you thought it'd win you the keys."

This was true; Ziva's maniacal driving meant Tony and McGee rarely allowed her behind the wheel by choice. There had been more scuffles over rights to the wheel than almost any other playful dispute within the unit.

"You haven't leant against anything since the arrests." On the drive back, Ziva had sat, awkwardly askew, in her seat. "My guess? Your back."

She remained silent; neither confirming nor denying his charge.

"You went straight to the Break Room." He continued in the same needling manner; making each guess like the rounds in a child's game. "Only you didn't get anything. And when you came back, the jacket was off. You took your bag with you. My guess? You stopped by the bathroom to check it out. You changed your shirt. My guess? Your original shirt had something like…."

The exaggeratedly dramatic pause was purely for effect. "…Oh, what could it be…?" He snapped his fingers. "I know, how 'bout blood?" Tony was relentless in his matter-of-fact litany. "You're wearing the same top underneath. My guess? It's stuck by said blood. Or taking it off might be painful. You're favoring your left a little so my guess is the left side - probably higher than middle. My guess? The guy Gibbs winged had a knife."

He waited for her response; there was none. "Want me to go on guessing?" The question was pleasantly asked. Although his tone of voice suggested he was losing patience with the topic and would increase the pressure if necessary. Tony was confident in his suspicions.

"Very good, Tony." Ziva applauded, matching his sarcasm, as she realized she was caught.

"I was a cop, Zee-vah, and you weren't exactly subtle." Tony eased up on the goading in anticipation of the fireworks.

"A scratch; it is nothing." There was an air of finality to her pronouncement. The implication being as far as Ziva was concerned, the conversation would terminate at this juncture.

"OK, so I'll take a look." Tony didn't allow the deflection.

"No. It is minor." Ziva leant against the edge of her desk, becoming evasive. "I will deal with it, myself. Later." She was uncharacteristically non-combative.

Tony was perplexed. If he had to bet on Ziva's mood at this moment, he would choose nervous. And she didn't do nerves.

"Is this some type of Ninja invincibility issue?" His taunting was more playful now – though no less focused on the objective. "If it's minor, then let me see."

Ziva sighed in resignation. Tony was scrutinizing her with a searching gaze; trying to solve his mystery. He was a born investigator and she knew he wouldn't quit until satisfied.

"Fine."

In one rebellious move she pulled both layers of clothing over her head, hissing slightly at the discomfort; eyes defiantly locked on his. Tony looked on in disbelief and admiration. He should have seen that coming. Challenge Ziva and, nine times out of ten, she would meet it head on. Then take it one step further.

"Black," he whistled appreciatively, "very nice. Matching set?"

Ziva smiled, in spite of her apprehension, and smacked his head.

"Seriously?" he objected; grinning and charmingly unrepentant. "Like you're shocked?" Tony made a circling motion with his index finger for her to turn around. "Show and tell time."

It was nasty but not serious - running from the top of her bra, for nearly three inches, up along her shoulder blade. Ziva's back was smeared with congealed blood and the wound was still seeping. Tony concluded the abrupt jerk as she removed her clothes probably had restarted the flow of blood.

"That's quite a scratch." There was a touch of reproach at her obstinacy in his observation. "What the hell was he aiming for?"

And then Tony saw them. Lower on her back; a fading pattern of crisscrossed marks. As if she'd been whipped.

"Jesus." Reflexively, under his breath, before he could prevent himself. Gently, Tony traced along one line with his finger. "This is what you didn't want me to see?"

"Yes." Ziva was holding her body ramrod stiff and her head had drooped.

Whilst trying to master a cascade of his own reactions, Tony sought to find the best method to soothe her evident humiliation; instantly regretting making fun of her description of 'a scratch'. He decided to downplay it and buy a little time to process.

"Let's clean you up."

Tony tore open wipes, deftly unclasped her bra and moved the strap. Although it would seem hardly possible, Ziva tensed even more at his touch; clenching her fists.

"I know, Zee-vah, I know," A note of feigned disappointment in his voice. "I had such high hopes for that moment too."

She slowly exhaled, relaxing a little; grateful for his lack of drama. Tony started to clean away the blood on her back; maintaining a smooth, easy commentary the whole time. Not requiring any answers or contribution from Ziva - allowing her to recover composure at her own pace.

"….when I was in Baltimore. You'd be amazed at some of the shit cops see." Getting another wipe; sensing her anxiety lessen by tiny degrees. "Helped deliver a baby once."

"You did?" Ziva craned her head around to look at him, intrigued. "Truthfully?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "Glad it wasn't the back of my car." He gave a shudder and pulled a face. "Messy." Suddenly adding, as he noticed her approving expression and was strangely affected by it, "In a totally miracle-of-new-life kinda way."

Tony moved his attention to her shoulder.

"Mind explaining just how you were planning on dealing with this by yourself?"

Ziva flinched as he examined the sliced skin.

"I am trained, Tony." She lifted her chin. "I have treated serious wounds under more difficult circumstances". The pride in her capabilities provided protection against the self-consciousness.

"Yeah, Zee-vah, and Jason Bourne can fix a fucking gunshot with vodka and dog medicine." Tony kept up his light-hearted teasing. "While I have absolutely no doubt you could beat someone to death with a book, I opted to skip my Happy Hour." He had switched to antiseptic wipes now; swabbing the wound and immediate area. "No vodka and this is gonna sting a little."

Ziva sucked a sharp intake of breath; it hurt.

"Hold still." Tony chided as she recoiled.

Ziva twitched again. He slipped one arm around her to prevent her pulling away from him. "Stop moving."

And, then, she felt him blowing softly on her shoulder. Ziva twisted around. "Tony, what are…?"

"A trick my Mom taught me." Tony shrugged, smiling at the memory. "It distracts from the sting - must work on Ninjas too." He taped a gauze pad into position. "One field dressing complete."

Ziva faced him.

"Are you not going to say anything?" Hesitantly looking at Tony and biting her lip.

"Saleem can consider himself one lucky bastard he's dead already." He said, very quietly, meeting her eyes.

Ziva smiled in pensive appreciation of the sentiment, buttoning her top and sitting on the desk.

"It did not last long." Commenting dispassionately, "interrogation techniques vary. They switched to…other methods."

Her background had operated as a double-edged sword. On one honed side, she would have known what to expect and been prepared. On the other, equally razor-sharp side, she would have known what to expect. Tony couldn't imagine anticipating the gradual intensification of ill-treatment as the terror merchants strove to find her weak points. The dawning of dreadful truth stretched the distance between them. Since the emergence of Michael Rivkin, and the subsequent events, in their lives a yawning, seemingly limitless, gulf had opened. Their customary carefree and unthinking interaction was strained; the sparring stiffly formal. Two people, who once were so assured of their bond, now struggled with the potential to cause offense or upset. A situation not aided by a complete lack of communication. With the exception of a single, fractured conversation – in the midst of a case – Tony and Ziva had not discussed the previous five months. They had, in fact, assiduously avoided the merest hint of the subject.

"Christ, Zee-vah, none of it would've fucking happened if I…."

"Don't. Please." Ziva imploringly stopped his attempt. "Please Tony? It is done."

There was mutual defensiveness embedded in the exchange. Tony's eyes were stormy and darkened as he battled anger at her suffering. Ziva's were making an appeal; her captivity had spontaneously risen from its shroud of silence. And, as yet, she didn't want – in reality was unable - to dwell on the issue.

"I'm gonna call Gibbs." Reaching across her and picking up the 'phone. "Then Ducky and take you over to his place."

This time Ziva's eyes held gratitude. He had instinctively known not to suggest the Emergency Room; they would notice too and, naturally, make invasive inquiries. Tony sat on the desk, beside her.

"It's not deep but Ducky needs to fix it properly." Holding the 'phone with his shoulder, placing one hand on the middle of her back, he remonstrated, "and, by the way, Zee-vah? It's more than a scratch."

Ziva watched him cautiously. "Gibbs knows." She quietly remarked.

"That you got cut?" Tony let the 'phone slip and caught it one handed; briefly surprised by the information.

Tony considered her statement. Of course Gibbs knew; his boss noticed everything. Tony realized what Ziva meant. Gibbs knew about the older, healing wounds. It was the reason he had let Ziva keep quiet about the injury on scene and sent them back. Tony hesitated before re-dialing; not looking at her and frowning.

"Why tell Gibbs, not me?" He had to ask; had to know. "Did you think I'd mind? That…that it'd make a difference?"

Ziva shook her head, recognizing what lay behind the cautious query.

"No, Tony, never that." She reassured, resting her head against him for a moment. "Gibbs found out. And he…Gibbs..." She searched for the right phrase to convey the distinction.

"Gibbs hasn't spent four years wishing he could get your clothes off?" Tony supplied helpfully.

Ziva tipped her head back and laughed.

"'Cause you know, Zee-vah, that little striptease was so worth the god-awful Friday night."

It was said with the trade-mark DiNozzo grin, the outrageous, teasing manner and met with Ziva's familiar mix of amusement and disapproval.

Ever so slightly, the gap had narrowed – they had made progress.

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**As always, make of it what you will and hope you enjoy. Please do post a review if you have the time – it really is helpful to know what you think. Tell me what didn't work, what did or even you were bored rigid & I should stop!**


	3. Past Deeds

**A/N: ****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**OK – here is chapter three….**

**As ever: the usual about cases and background details. **

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"_I had a dream_

_And there mine eyes did see_

_The shadows of past deeds_

_Like present things…"_

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

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**December 2009**

As the bright, exceedingly attractive young woman made her way through the squad-room, both Tony and McGee's eyes followed her. She cast a friendly look at the older man but paused at McGee's desk.

"Hi." An open, winning smile played around her mouth. "Are you Agent Andrews by any chance?"

McGee felt acute awareness of his earlier admiration and, additionally, felt she must be aware of it too. His face tinged pink.

"No." Nearly knocking over a stack of papers; trying to appear casually helpful and wishing he hadn't been staring. "No, no…I'm sorry I'm not."

The attempt at offhandedness strangled by his apology for being someone else and the lack of further helpful information - his inquisitor seemed amused by his shyness. And even a little let-down by the discovery that he wasn't the official she was seeking. McGee always underestimated the effects on women of his sweet, self-effacing manner.

"Oh." She waited with an air of expectation before prompting "Then could you tell me where he is, please?"

Tony was watching; enormously entertained. This fact contributing to McGee's discomfort - the day's sport had found its theme. McGee decided to prove Tony wrong; pushing back his chair and standing.

"I can do better than that." His genuine, affable smile broke out across his face as he summoned confidence. "I'll take you to him." The confidence slipped just a little "that is…if you'd like me to…?"

As the pair headed in the direction of the elevator, McGee ignored both Tony's knowing smirk and Ziva's curious glance as they crossed paths. "I'm Agent Tim McGee…."

It was that strange, vacant space between Christmas and the New Year; the week which seems almost an after-thought of calendar time. The frenzied build-up to festivities had abated and the orgy of reviews and resolutions was in full cry. There were no investigations; apparently criminal activity was taking a holiday too. The team was spending their time in the drudgery of 'house-keeping' duties – all those unappealing, unpopular tasks which were gladly deferred when cases needed to be solved. Each time Gibbs strode into the bull-pen, his MRCT studied him with keen optimism followed by deflation – reacting with the predictability of Pavlov's dogs.

McGee returned, without the visitor.

"Did you get her number?" Tony immediately started warming up his routine. He viewed it as a late Christmas present which would be much more fun than year-end requisition requests.

"No, Tony." McGee rolled his eyes – he hadn't made it to his desk yet.

"Striiiike." Tony's gleeful assessment did not allow for the fact McGee might not have even tried such an angle. "Please tell me you, at least, got beyond 'I'm Techie-Tim the McGeeK'?"

"Yes, Tony." McGee's statement contained small internal satisfaction – she had asked for his number. He withheld that detail to ambush Tony with its revelation when the teasing reached a peak. McGee was an excellent, if unsure at times, strategist. Tony looked toward Ziva who appeared confused by the discussion.

"Timmy made a new friend today." The explanation made to sound as if he was a proud, relieved parent on the first day of Kindergarten. "Well…."

"Gear up." For once, in recent days, the team hadn't noticed Gibbs' arrival in their midst. "We got a body."

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The obvious omission of specifics should have been a clue. However, it wasn't until they reached the crime scene that the inappropriateness of their excitement fully hit home. The daughter of a Marine Colonel had been found dead. She was a college student; whose promise and vivacity had been mercilessly exterminated. Her attacker abandoning the body in a park: for it to be discovered by a dog walker. They began the investigation with somber professional determination - a practical channel for redirection of the emotional toll.

"Time, Duck? Or cause?" Gibbs gruff question breaking the solemn silence as they each performed their allotted assignments.

"Impossible to say with any certainty at present, Jethro," Ducky was meticulous in his conclusions; never committing until he was sure. An attitude which, during cases, could drive an investigator to the brink: and which provided absolute comfort during prosecutions. "The weather, temperature…I would say, as a preliminary guide; not less than 48 hrs and probably not more than 72."

Gibbs nodded. The conjecture fitted with the timeline they had established thus far.

"We think she was strangled." Palmer chipped in the answer to the second part of Gibbs' query. "She might have been sexually assaulted." Unthinkingly lowering his voice and furtively looking at Ziva as he spoke.

He was fortunate to be out of range of Tony who was tempted to nudge Palmer, currently perched on the edge, into the small ravine. He was less fortunate when it came to the wrath of Gibbs' stare.

"Strangulation can be an intimate method for killing someone." Ziva's cool statement indicating she was unperturbed by Palmer's faux pas. Tony wandered closer to her.

"Spoken like a true Ninja." The tease concealed his concern. "Remind me never to get intimate with you." Grinning at the dramatically disgusted look she shot back at him.

"We think and it might be," Ducky added his own brand of reproach to the conversation. "We do not _know_, Mr. Palmer. We shall, however, find out. A hand, if you would be so kind, dear boy?" Raising his arm for McGee to reach down and haul the pathologist out of the awkward gap.

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Jessica Peterson's lifeless form lay on an Autopsy slab with a grim, pallid sheen to her features. The jarring glimpse of the ugly Y-incision - just visible beneath the sheet modestly covering her – belied the reposeful expression on her face.

"…death was the result of asphyxiation."

Ducky finished his detailed description of the young woman's final moments. The facts delivered with his usual mix of medical aridity and gentle sympathy – as if he was making an apology to the deceased, on behalf of humanity, for the manner of their demise. Gibbs, Ziva and Tony were his audience.

"Any sign of a struggle?" Gibbs question was the next obvious step. Before Ducky could respond, McGee poked his head through the double doors.

"Uh, Boss? Colonel Peterson's about to come online in MTAC."

His announcement dropped the already subdued atmosphere down several notches. The girl's father was currently serving overseas – he had been informed of the situation. No-one envied Gibbs the duty of facing the grief-stricken man, nor having to ask for background details. And since the father would, no doubt, seek answers of his own, perhaps Gibbs would be adding to the burden of distress. Tony was pacing a restless circle around the room.

"It's a horrible time of year for this news…." As Gibbs left, the luckless Palmer struck again.

"Oh really, Palmer?" Tony hadn't forgiven him for the earlier mistake and snapped a witheringly sarcastic interruption. "Exactly when _is_ it a good fucking time of year to tell someone their kid's been brutally murdered?"

Ziva observed the exchange with quiet puzzlement. Everyone knew Palmer was tactless. And everyone knew there was no malice behind his frequent misjudgments of mood. Tony's response to his hapless comment was unwarranted in its ferocity.

"There is no forensic evidence to speak of – he's very clever this fellow." Ducky intervened and succeeded in drawing everyone's attention back to the case. "However, there are one or two striking elements worthy of note…"

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"You should go home."

Ziva placed her bag on the bar and took the stool next to him. The team had worked long into the night. Their usual dedication magnified as a testament to Gibbs' sad conference with Jessica's father. He knew what it was like to lose a daughter – as a result of murderous violence - whilst absent in service of his country. Progress had been frustratingly minimal.

"But Mom," Tony fake whined - minus his usual playful quality, "'s not my bed-time yet." He didn't look at her.

Ziva surveyed him. He was dangerous when in this frame of mind. A fog of bitterness and cynicism seemed to cloud his personality. It could be destructive and hurtful; both for himself and, if they happened to be in the line of fire, those around him.

"This case," Uncertain as to the cause of Tony's descent into darkness, she opened the discussion based on her instinct, "it is bothering you?"

Tony scowled in snide, mocking disbelief. "Of course it doesn't bother you." This time he did glance in her direction.

Ziva tensed slightly at his implication – sensitive to the notion she was unfeeling – absorbing his accurate and intentional jab.

"You know that is not true." She hid the hurt with reserved denial. "We are all affected…but you…this is different, somehow, for you?" The hesitancy appealed for Tony not to sting again.

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the bar and rubbed wearily at his forehead. Ziva had tracked him down and he was struck by the realization that picking on her was uncalled for and ungracious. The thought re-awakened the sense of comfort he derived from being with her - a feeling which had seemed dormant since her return to NCIS.

"Just a reminder….of an old case." He sighed, his voice softening a little, "Years ago, in Baltimore. The vic., today with Ducky, she looked the same – kinda…"

Ziva remained silent for a few minutes. A partial explanation: one which was too simple to account for this level of black moodiness. Over the years, they had dealt with many investigations – some must have borne more than slight resemblance to his former existence. Gibbs' doctrine that belief in co-incidences was as valid as belief in UFOs – possibly less so - was ingrained in his whole team.

"You did not catch the perpetrator?" She cautiously persevered – in the belief Tony was not being entirely forthcoming – her voice compassionate, not curious.

"Oh yeah, we nailed him….a regular happy ending." Tony's manner hardened again and he took a big drink, grimacing.

Ziva shifted in her seat, preparing another gentle inquiry. However, Tony continued unbidden – self-scorn evident in the words. "After he'd butchered one more – she was just a kid….Samantha…" He looked straight ahead. "Wanna know the best part?" There was a dreadful edge to his voice. "I'd already questioned the bastard once."

He took another drink and waited for Ziva to speak.

"What did you miss?" It was a gamble. She might provoke an angry outburst. Or she might assist him to articulate his distress and ease the megrims.

"An alibi." Ziva's directness had surprised Tony. "He had an alibi." He shook his head at the memories, isolated – almost as if he were talking to himself – "I knew it was him….fucking knew it..."

"You made a mistake when you verified his story?" Ziva dared to probe the wound again. She was oddly encouraged by his reaction - Tony hadn't lashed out nor had he shunned her efforts.

"No, someone else checked it out." His smile was vicious as he reflected on the events "I mean, Christ, who'd think murderers weren't always truthful?"

"Then you are not responsible, Tony." It didn't belittle his concern but it did contradict the rationale for his behavior.

For the first time since he had started his story, he looked at her. Suddenly aware Ziva had applied her unique logical balm to his problem. Where others would have employed emotion or hidden behind non-judgment, she had dispassionately trespassed on the hurt. And she achieved a type of relief with the tactic.

He shrugged, "Yeah?" not quite convinced "I'm sure her parents feel real good about that."

Ziva placed her hand on his arm, "Tony, you are not responsible for the actions of others." Her eyes dropped from his as she made her next statement. "Sometimes unintended consequences happen… People can be hurt….and you do not bear the responsibility…" Ziva tailed off uncertainly; quickly removing her hand.

Their pose was a portrait; the current state of their relationship sketched by physical language. He was sat facing the bar. She was sat beside, him facing in the opposite direction. Since Tony's discovery in October, they had not spoken of – or even alluded to - her captivity, the death of Rivkin, nor Tony's rescue mission. However, the lateness of the hour and the fragile reconnection of their particular empathy had drawn upon a subconscious need for understanding. It was very delicate territory – as illustrated by Ziva's inconclusive, indistinct speech. Tony looked at her with a long, searching gaze.

"Doesn't mean you don't regret those consequences." He responded carefully, trying to express his meaning without destroying the renewed, nascent closeness.

"We all regret. Regrets serve no purpose." The softness and warmth of her smile dissipated the dismissive nature of her comment. And the slow breath she released indicated anxiety at mentioning the topic was allayed by his caring, though understated, reply. The moment had passed with success and, more importantly, without damage. "You should go home."

"Probationary Agent David, can I buy you a drink?" His exaggerated formality a nod to the prohibition on dating – they were not supposed to do this, not alone together.

"How many?" She meant his intake. Tony grinned and deliberately misunderstood. He would only be on his second wing anyway.

"Well, I was thinking of one but if you wanna go all wild and start with multiples, that's fine with me." He beckoned for the girl behind the bar.

"One." Ziva refused to fall for the charm, repeating firmly. "And then you will go home."

She swung her legs around and the position altered. They were facing each other - one step further in navigating the long road back.

* * *

**As always, make of it what you will and hope you enjoy. Please do post a review if you have the time – it is helpful to know what you think. Tell me what didn't work, what did or even you were bored rigid & I should stop!**


	4. Poisoned Dreams

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**OK, here's Ch. 4 – and this one is a bit obvious but necessary. **

**I haven't forgotten the beginning**_**, **_**I promise – in case you're wondering? There is a clue in Ch. 1 as to where the 'past' catches up with the 'present'. If you want to stick with the tale, it will get there – I'm a slow spinner of stories, sorry! And, with a bit of luck, it should all make sense in the end….**

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* * *

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"_A Dream has power to poison sleep."_

_Percy Bysshe Shelley_

**February 2010**

Somehow they had enraged the travel gods. The departure of the flight over was delayed by several hours. The 'plane was full – there was absolutely no chance of stretching out on an empty seat. Moreover, the jammed, seething mass of noisy humanity meant even standing up to move around was a complicated, tiresome ordeal. A passenger's child wailed intermittently. Tony would swear the intervals were deliberately timed to coincide with his dozing. Ziva-on-a-mission wasn't the most fun traveling companion; her tendency for brisk efficiency and practicality slipping into overdrive. And the Cabin Crew was comprised of gay men and hatchet-faced women - not exactly the sexy come-hither stuff of urban legends. Traffic into the centre of Paris was a snarl of congestion. The journey seemed to have lasted forever. However, these were unavoidable trials and Tony was savoring the prospect of arriving at their hotel, settling into rooms and relaxing.

Unfortunately, that's where the real trouble began. The check-in process turned into a marathon. At least half a dozen other guests were dealt with whilst Ziva negotiated, cajoled and vehemently railed against the shared room. The innocent desk clerk endured the storm with Zen-like depths of forbearance; politely repeating his apologies and inability to assist them. He and Tony discreetly exchanged looks in a confederacy of commiseration. The clerk pitying Tony for, what in his mind, was the unenviable sentence of temporary imprisonment with a living, breathing Harpy. Tony returning the favor each time Ziva renewed her onslaught.

The final straw came when she insisted management call every single suitable hotel in the city; in search of alternative accommodation. It was at that point Tony intervened to curtail her fruitless campaign. One room would be preferable to spending the evening in the lobby. Or if she continued unchecked, ejection by the Gendarmerie which would, undoubtedly lead to a night in jail. Tony didn't know how French law enforcement operated. He did know Ziva's current disposition was likely to earn them a charge of resisting – with excessive force and intent to cause harm – arrest.

"Hey Ninja, enough." He ended the tirade. "It's not their mistake. Let it go."

Tony took charge and completed the necessary formalities – with Ziva sullenly by his side. He received another telepathic wave of appreciation by propelling her away from the counter. The gaggle of hotel staff which had slowly accrued as spectators to the protracted dispute, watched them leave with a collective sense of disappointment.

"une folle connasse" The relieved clerk commented to his companions – sufficiently loud for Ziva to overhear. She spun round and started back in the direction of the desk. Tony caught her elbow.

"Zee-vah, Stop it." There was an exasperated firmness to his instruction. "Now." Prompted less by altruism on behalf of the clerk and more by the dispiriting idea he wouldn't get to unwind any time soon. Definitely wouldn't if he didn't prevent another encounter.

She came to a halt, a mutinous expression on her face. "He called me a crazy bitch."

"Well, right now, I'm inclined to agree with him." The surprise of his blunt assessment provided just the right amount of shock. Tony cocked his head. "I _really_ don't wanna be an accessory to homicide-by-credit-card, Zee-vah?"

The relaxed, playful plea canceled the implicit criticism contained within his previous statement. She surrendered; though not before leaning around Tony's body and spitting out one final, contemptuous retort: "Et tu avaler la fumée." It was at a volume audible to everyone in the entire lobby area.

On the way up, an uncomfortable, brooding silence developed. Tony cast a quizzical, curious glance at her.

"What'd you say to him, anyway?" He asked, trying to break the odd mood.

Ziva shrugged carelessly. "I told him he swallowed."

"I think you mean sucks" He absent-mindedly made the correction – not really thinking about her phraseology.

"No, Tony, I mean swallow." She began to translate her point with detached detail. "It is an expression, yes? As in swallowing sem…" Ziva could be unnervingly clinical when it came to discussing sex.

"Got it." As the nature of the insult registered, he cut her off and hoped the porter didn't speak English.

Tony's slightly stunned look made Ziva smile - for the first time since discovering the reservation mishap. The strange shadow of strain which had become etched on her features lifted briefly. The porter remained impassive. Except for the tiny movement of his lips which revealed Tony's hope was unfounded. The weird, worried eddy swirling around the elevator was acute; its presence driving an invisible wedge between them.

"Jesus, Zee-vah, that's just fucking great." He shook his head, muttering incredulously. "After your neurotic Ninja number, if they weren't already gonna spit, or worse, in our coffee, it's a given now."

* * *

"Meet the Rainiers: Part Deux." Tony tipped the, now openly, smirking porter. He dumped their bags on the floor, tossing the key-cards onto the table and flung himself full length onto the bed. His relief at, finally, arriving in the room was short-lived.

"Which side do you want?" He asked; sitting up to rotate and massage a shoulder which ached as though it had been locked in clamps since D.C.

"Neither, thank you." Ziva's curt reply indicated her anger had transposed into muted annoyance.

Tony frowned. "Um, unless you're gonna do a Mary Poppins with that bag of yours, there's only one bed?"

She was moving around the room in a constant, though not necessarily warranted, bustle of activity.

"I will take the couch." It was neutrally stated – suspiciously so – and Tony's attention became more focused.

"Why?" Recognition of the potential for further strife failed to keep the slight jeer out of his voice.

"Because there is only one bed." Ziva coolly mimicked his smart alec tone. "I am going to shower and change."

She collected clothes and the required toiletries. Disappearing before Tony could extend the debate. He watched her leave – trying to gauge what lay behind her behavior. Ziva's almost alchemistic temperament meant she had an infinite capacity for variations on mood. This wasn't new. And, sometimes, her rational thought process would suffer a melt-down. Clearly she was tired and clearly the booking error hadn't helped. Nevertheless, the strength of Ziva's reaction downstairs and the stubborn insistence for sleeping on the couch was unreasonable - even for her – over such trivialities.

Ziva took a deep breath before exiting the bathroom. Aware an argument was brewing; if she fought the battle, she would lose the war. Her aim was to avoid the confrontation without activating Tony's relentless curiosity. The long, hot shower had soothed her a little; washing away travel-weariness and grime. Granting Ziva the breathing space she needed to find composure - the composure which had been in danger of disintegration. Their partnership was on a more even footing. It could, after a fashion, be characterized as having returned to normal – Ziva was unwilling to jeopardize that superficial advance; or acknowledge the deeper demons which still threatened.

"What time would you like to eat?" The inquiry was friendly, natural.

"On which continent?" She ignored the joke. And Tony wasn't fooled by her demeanor; it took more than a shower to alter Ziva's viewpoint. "After I've cleaned up."

Ziva contacted house-keeping and requested extra linens. Their delivery collided with Tony's re-appearance in the room.

"You're serious?" He demanded in disbelief.

She nodded.

"Zee-vah, this is stupid." He appealed to commonsense, grinning good-naturedly. "I mean, we've pretended we were married, remember?"

"That was our cover. It was work." There was a peculiar determination in her manner.

"_This _is work. We're here on an assignment." He raised an eyebrow, with complete lack of comprehension. "So what's the difference?"

"We are here to collect and escort a witness, Tony. That is the difference." Ziva sighed, mentally designing an escape from the conversation. "It would be a violation of protocol."

"Since when've you ever worried about protocol?" The prim, utterly specious nature of her explanation amused Tony. He laughed. "Christ, she's not gonna know if we slept together."

There was momentary pause at his unlucky choice of words. And Ziva took that opportunity to change the subject.

"We should eat." Walking away from him, gathering her coat and waiting by the door. Tony followed her. Now becoming pissed off; she wouldn't back down. Which meant his immediate future held a night on the couch.

* * *

Initially, Tony attempted to tease Ziva into acquiescence. He was met with unflinching rebuttal; in turn, this provoked irritation on his part. They dined in stilted, staccato sentences; retreating into guarded territories. Tony accepted they were, of course, both jet-lagged. Nevertheless, Ziva's stance on the matter was puzzling. Not only was she refusing to share the bed; she was refusing to permit him to take the couch. Tony was baffled by her attitude; especially since she hadn't resorted to aggression as a defense mechanism. There was an unquantifiable aspect to the rift. And, try as he might to access her thinking, Ziva maintained unyielding distance from his efforts to engage on the topic. The excursion ended in chilly, unhappy tension.

Once back in the room, the beleaguered aloofness continued. Only it was infused with a marked, inexplicable increase in pressure. The atmosphere bore all the hallmarks of an apparitional quarrel. Ziva arranged herself on the couch reading – internally counting the minutes until her private victory was secured. As Tony headed for the bed, he made one last offer.

"You're sure?" Studying her for some clue, some justification for the unexpected withdrawal.

She refused to look at him – apparently concentrating on her book. "Tony, it is unlikely I would have changed my mind since you last inquired." The air of condescension in her manner tipped Tony over the edge.

"OK, sorry I asked." He snapped. "You know, Zee-vah, you've behaved like a fucking child since we got here." Tony's supply of patience was as exhausted as he was.

* * *

He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep. He was merely aware of the gradual contest between unconscious and conscious states. At first, Tony persuaded his brain that the sound was part of a dream. Eventually, since the sound didn't abate, he forced himself to relinquish the comfort of sleep. Rolling over, confusedly remembering where he was, before reaching for the light. Then he recognized there was no need; the room was illuminated. Tony sat up, drowsily scanning for the source of the noise. The grogginess was shed with lightning fast speed as the adrenaline of alarm hit.

She was having a nightmare. Ziva was in the throes of a rigid, restrained torment; a slight paroxysm of shuddering occasionally seizing her body. Her breathing was fast and she was making a choked, whimpering cry. Within seconds, Tony had catapulted out of the bed and was across the room. He stood, suddenly unsure of what he should do; hesitant to wake her but reluctant to leave her in such evident distress. Tears were seeping from Ziva's eyes and her skin glistened with sweat. Tony suppressed sickening horror. The stifled sobs were the manifestation of someone dreaming they were trying not to scream in pain - because that's exactly what she would have done. The realization spurred him into action; leaning over and gently touching her shoulder.

"Hey Zee-vah?" Tony half expected a reflexive strike and, involuntarily, prepared to duck. "Zee-vah, sweetheart? Wake up." He cautiously repeated the move – a little more confidently.

The tremors ceased and her eyelids fluttered open and then slid closed again. Tony sat next to her - noticing Ziva had remained upright. He wondered if she had intended to maintain that pose all night. Perhaps operating out of the hope she mightn't fall too soundly asleep; anxiously seeking to avert the revelation. The weight and motion of his body on the couch caused her to stir. Her eyes opened and stayed that way – though her vague reactions were those of the newly awakened. After a few moments she looked at him and he saw the haunting flicker of embarrassment. Her mind had caught up.

"What time is it?" A trace of trembling tinged her voice. The question was ridiculous; confirming Tony's conclusion. If Ziva hadn't expected this - if it was an unusual occurrence - the most material question would be; why the hell was he sitting beside her in the middle of the night? Something, Tony conceded, which would be incredibly creepy under normal circumstances.

"No idea." Lightly brushing a strand of hair from her face, "You were dreaming."

Tony decided to avoid a direct reference – despite the fact dream was the least appropriate word to describe what he had witnessed. This, obviously, was the reason for her earlier extreme, freaky conduct. He wished he hadn't called her neurotic – and that he could talk to her. Yet, Tony knew the battlements would be in place; more unassailable than ever. If he pushed in opposition to her emotional seclusion, it would only exacerbate the situation. Addressing it was – had to be - entirely Ziva's choice.

In the bathroom, Ziva splashed water on her face and changed the PJs which were damp from perspiration. She studied her reflection in the mirror. In the past six months, the after-effects of her ordeal had lessened significantly. The difficult nights now rare events; triggered, mostly, by stress. Ziva had succeeded in subjugating the feelings and fear. She resumed the semblance of a standard existence. No-one would – should – ever know of her experiences and struggles. Except Ziva's carefully constructed illusion had cracked tonight – in front of Tony. A sense of defeat washed over her; it seemed as if the past and Fate were in collusion against further improvement.

Ziva moved to sit down again, Tony stood and stopped her.

"Don't." He held her gaze. "C'mon, Zee-vah? His voice was softly sympathetic in making the invitation.

As Tony reached across to kill the light, Ziva's eyes darted in the direction of his arm and she stiffened. The penny dropped in one, heart-breaking, instant. She was afraid of the dark. His Ninja - who wasn't scared of anything – was afraid of the dark. He took her hand and the crushing force of Ziva's grip, when blackness enveloped the room, made him wince. At the bed, he casually ensured the lamp was on, before trying to extract his other hand.

"If I read, the light will not disturb you?" She was sitting up; a little awkward and uncertain.

"No." He yawned. "I could tell you some of the places I've slept in…." Making the proposed tales sound particularly unsavory to set himself up as an easy mark.

"Ugh, I would rather you did not." Ziva interrupted, responding to the game. Tony smiled into his pillow. Despite the brittleness to the bravado, she was adjusting and beginning to settle. He was in that pleasant zone between sleeping and waking when Ziva threw off the blankets.

"_Now_ what?" The exasperation was genuine; at this rate, no-one would manage any rest.

"My gun." She had to be armed.

"You can have mine." Tony actively fostered the impression of a dilettante. In reality, he was scrupulously competent and professional. They were on a mission; his weapon was on the nightstand. As he handed Ziva the gun, he grinned. "'Though, I'm warning you, Zee-vah, make any moves on my virtue and I'm gonna take it back."

* * *

It was hideously early when he woke up the next morning. Tony lay for a few minutes before abandoning the pursuit of more sleep. He got up and glanced over at Ziva. She was curled in a ball – however she was sleeping easily and peacefully. He noted, with satisfaction, her book on the table and the absence of light. She had gone – not fallen – to sleep. Both hands were visible; neither holding the Sig. – it was under her pillow. The security derived from her finger-on-the-trigger mindset had been supplied, instead, by his closeness. Although neither Tony, nor Ziva, were fully cognizant of that connection.

After a hushed 'phone call to the Concierge, Tony headed for the hotel gym. Before he left, he switched on light. Sunrise in Paris would not occur for another couple of hours. If she roused whilst he was away, she would not waken, alone, to darkness.

* * *

**A huge thank you to everyone who has posted a review – it is very helpful to know what you think. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me what you liked, what you didn't or that you've given up…**


	5. Sure of You

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**OK, here's Ch. 5 – still with me? **

**Again with the background details….**

* * *

"_Pooh!" he whispered. "Yes, Piglet?"_

"_Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you."_

_A. A. Milne_

**March/April 2010**

Jessica Peterson's murder inhabited the squad-room as surely as if her corpse had been propped up behind Tony's desk. In the months since the discovery of her body, the investigation had yielded a dearth of leads. Progress had been impeded by the fact she was the fourth victim of a serial rapist and killer. The other three victims were civilians; with no reason to fall within the purview of NCIS. Understandably, with eighteen months of hard work already invested in the case, Metro PD were not about to hand over jurisdiction to NCIS. Equally understandable, Gibbs' team were not about to abandon their duty to the Colonel. After much head-butting and wrangling, the LEO's won. Officially, NCIS were only to offer assistance if requested and concentrate on their own workload. Vance had been adamant. Unofficially, his instructions were completely ignored.

Tony took the directive the hardest; using his extensive network of contacts within police precincts, the County M.E. and various other departments to keep up-to-date with any developments. He cashed in favors, made deals and Ziva thought she overheard him, essentially, blackmailing one unfortunate soul. Although Gibbs had divined there was more to his senior field agent's devotion, he didn't intervene. He had faith in his team and, as yet, Tony had shown no signs of breaking any of his Rules. Specifically, #10: never get personally involved in a case. Although Tony might be personally involved, it was not of the hazardous type. Rule #11 pronounced when the job is done walk away. The job wasn't done. Gibbs gave Tony tacit permission to keep digging. And was utterly unfazed by the notion they were all breaking Vance's rules.

When Metro brought in a suspect for questioning, Tony inveigled an invite. The man was a Barista in a coffee shop frequented by three of the women. He had a couple of priors for violence against women, was unable to account for his whereabouts at the relevant times. Moreover, he had allegedly formed an attachment to the first victim; actively seeking a relationship. Only to be rejected forcefully on several occasions; the woman had, eventually, complained to the management. There was no connection to Jessica Peterson. The belief was, if he were guilty of the three, he would confess to the other death.

"Fucking idiots." Even before the interview was halfway through, Tony was leaving the observation room, shaking his head. "'s not him."

Ziva had accompanied Tony. Their diversion made whilst they were, ostensibly, taking witness statements in the current sanctioned case. She followed, smiling in apology at the detective who had arranged for their presence.

"Tony, you do not know for certain." She walked after him. He was already on the 'phone, embroiled in a cryptic negotiation.

She caught up, just as Tony finished the call, "Deal."

"They have not concluded their questioning." She repeated her objection. "You do not know for certain."

He came to an abrupt halt, turning around and they almost collided.

"Oh come on, Zee-vah, _that_ guy?" He threw his hands out in an incredulous appeal. "Ducky found barely any trace. Abby's brilliantly identified a couple of fibers which right now are meaningless…." Frustration was clearly evident. "You seriously believe Mr.-wanna-extra-shot-of-espresso-in-that, could pull it off?

She hesitated for a moment. Tony's logic was sound. She also knew the reason this case was nagging at him. And was concerned it might be affecting his judgment.

"I do not believe he is a convincing suspect." Ziva conceded circumspectly as they started walking again.

"_Thank you_." Tony pushed open the door to the bathroom with his shoulder.

"But, Tony, it is not our investigation." Without a second's thought, Ziva chased after him. "And that means we cannot….."

The appalled look of the three uniformed cops in the Men's Room matched Tony's. The idea Ziva wouldn't confine such incursions to home turf, hadn't occurred to him.

"Jesus, Zee-vah, we're not in Kansas anymore." Seeing the puzzled expression on her face, he pointed toward the door, stating emphatically, "Get. Out."

As she waited outside, Zee-vah ignored the slightly outraged glances of two policemen as they exited.

"What can I say?" Tony re-appeared and offered an apologetic shrug to the third, disgruntled officer. "She's an alien." Making it sound like he wasn't certain if Ziva was a simple-minded foreigner or an extra-terrestrial.

"When I have passed my citizenship exam, I will be as American as apple pie." She retorted; mildly put out by his excuse for her behavior.

"Apple pie with C-4 baked into the crust." Tony grinned affectionately; amused by her absolute confidence as to the outcome. In truth, he didn't have any doubts either. "I'm betting you're gonna fail the section on the Right to Privacy though." He waved his hand to indicate the bathroom sign.

Tony grabbed her arm and began walking them, purposefully, in the direction of the stairs; not the station's main entrance. Ziva shook free and faced him.

"You cannot interfere." She insisted. "It is their investigation."

"Look, they're trying to get a result." Tony paced a circle around her; formulating his argument. "I understand that. Christ, we've all been there….It's not him." He paused for a moment, giving her a questioning look. "I know it, Zee-vah. It's not him." Tony pursued his rationale; wanting to persuade Ziva. "Interrogate someone long enough, do it right, and they'll fucking admit to anything…."

He stopped awkwardly as the realization of what he'd said sunk in. Tony and Ziva had not spoken of the night in Paris. It had merely been cataloged; another contribution to the vast repository of things-they-knew-about-each-other-no-one-else-did. The topic of Somalia, and anything connected to those events, still remained conspicuously anonymous. Tony had tried once; taking a fleeting opportunity which presented itself when she analyzed Saleem's motivations. And Ziva had aborted the conversation within seconds. Admittedly, they were in the process of searching a warehouse for a dirty bomb. Nevertheless, it wouldn't have been the first time Tony and Ziva had held significant discussions at totally inappropriate moments. It was their modus operandi; including whilst Ziva was actually in the process of defusing a bomb. The speed with which she turned away from him and dismissed his tentative foray left Tony in no doubt that pressing her would be both unwise and unwelcome.

Her eyes were full of sympathy. "Tony, you cannot alter the past."

"You think I don't know that?" He was touchingly earnest in the entreaty.

Ziva shook her head, with a small smile in acceptance of Tony's point. "No." Gently placing a hand on his chest, she ceased the restless orbit. "I think you believe you are obligated by the mistakes of others."

She sought to soothe his dismay at the perceived blunder. "I think, sometimes, you blame yourself…." Playing with his tie, Ziva carefully articulated absolution. "And it is entirely unnecessary."

They were doing it again; conducting a conversation with a greater, separate sub-text. Ziva knew the primary impediment to dramatic change in the existing conditions was her own reticence. She wondered if the issue would remain perpetually between them. Held in eternal abeyance and fossilized by her failure. In part, the trouble was a result of the unflinchingly practical aspect to her nature; "What is there to talk about?" wasn't solely designed to brush off Tony's attempt. It was a manifestation of her ability to segregate problems and emotions; mentally sifting those of use and those which were worthless. The other, far more important portion of her reluctance stemmed from complex and irrational confusion. The cause and effect of her re-joining Mossad and subsequent ramifications was a quagmire of culpability, betrayal and innominate desires. The potential for further destruction was, in her mind, scary and enormous. However, Tony's inadvertent reference had elicited an instinctive response. Ziva wanted to ease his discomfit which, in turn, had produced an advance on the wider struggle. She would take the risk to help Tony.

"Not always it isn't." Tony cautiously offered. They were testing each other for safety. After all, one effort at resolution had culminated in Tony flat on his back with Ziva's gun shoved against him.

"In this case," Ziva looked directly at him. "It is."

He stood, scrutinizing her. Acutely aware of her intentionally indirect allusion, he tried to assess the extent of Ziva's willingness to engage. Annoyed by his thoughtless remark: by the seeming intractable, permanence to their difficulty. And distinctly disheartened: because a corridor in the middle of a busy, bustling police precinct wasn't the place to have this discussion. People were jostling around them; coming and going. Not to mention the minor detail of supposedly being at work. Once again, they had stumbled into the topic with spectacularly bad timing. Additionally, he sensed Ziva had reached her limit for today. He would have to forgo capitalizing on the brief victory; without knowing when there would be another chance.

"I _can_ make damn sure history doesn't repeat." Tony switched the focus firmly back to Jessica Peterson's murder. There was a hint of grim determination in his voice.

They resumed their progression down the hallway.

"What are we going to do?" Ziva's query showed support for whatever Tony was planning and appreciation of his consideration in letting the subject drop.

"Borrow a little evidence." The short reply was almost mischievous. He grinned as she reciprocated his demeanor – anticipation for rebellion displayed by the glint in her eyes.

* * *

The evidence Tony borrowed was the cell 'phones and two lap-tops, belonging to the victims. Ziva was not party to what strings he had to pull to achieve the feat. She was just present for the 'look-the-other-way' distraction of the clerk.

"What'd ya got, DiNozzo?' Gibbs demanded an update in typical fashion.

They were gathered around the plasma screen. Tony flicked – with more than a little self-satisfied flourish - to an image of a man.

"Declan Devlin; highly educated, Irish businessman, philanthropist, keen traveler and, oh yeah, the murderer of four women – including Jessica Peterson."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "Connection?"

"Internet dating sites – three different ones to be precise." Tony elaborated. "McApple, tell the man."

For several days, McGee had painstakingly examined and searched the women's electronic files and records. His persistence revealed a hitherto undiscovered link.

"Well, Boss," McGee began to explain his findings. "Delvin disguised his IP address. It wouldn't show up on a basic check of the sites. It was clever, he re-routed through…."

"Yeah, he did that." Tony had been completely confident in McGee's skills. And impressed at how quickly McGee had found the missing piece of the mystery. However, the older sibling tormenting the younger dynamic was increased by his ebullience at cracking the case. "He'd arrange to meet the women at a coffee place when he was over on business."

"Jessica Peterson didn't subscribe to a dating site?" Gibbs would be certain before he broke the news to her father. "McGee, you checked her i-top gadget?" He asked for confirmation. Fortunately his team could understand their Boss' mangled interpretations of technology.

"Her ipad, yes Boss." McGee answered. "Devlin's last target suffered cold feet at the last minute. We've traced her through another site."

"So what's the link to Jessica?" Gibbs always ensured his agents' theories stood up to his own exacting standards before any conclusions were settled. Even if they sometimes proved erroneous when more details emerged, they had to make sense at first blush.

"She was just unlucky." Tony's voice lost some of its delight. "Crossed paths with Devlin and fit his needs. Her movements and the timeline are a match. Abby's fibers are an exclusive brand of Irish linen."

Gibbs nodded. "Good work. Get him picked up."

"Well, apart from the paperwork which needs to be signed off," Tony glanced toward the upper level and Vance's office. "And thanks to Zee-vah's willingness to sleep with Ian from Interpol, it's all set…"

"Ugh, Tony, I will hurt you." Ziva interrupted threateningly. It was a mostly teasing remark. Quietly she was both pleased and relieved Tony had accomplished his aim and succeeded in solving the case.

Metro PD and the D.A.'s office were decidedly unhappy when Tony's interference with their evidence became apparent. Vance was able to ameliorate the ill-feeling by allowing them to claim full credit for the arrest and extradition of Devlin. NCIS were listed only as 'another law enforcement agency' - even Interpol was identified by name, contributing an international flavor to the news coverage. The running office joke at their lack of recognition was taken to new levels.

As Ziva headed out at the end of the day, she stopped in front of Tony's desk.

"Your instincts were right…again." She paused, softly adding, "You should not feel guilty, Tony." And she left before he could respond. He watched her go; feeling oddly contented by their recent interaction.

The first part of her declaration was a deliberately chosen phrase. They were the same words Ziva had said during their initial attempt to make peace. It meant her point was unmistakable.

* * *

**Again huge thanks to everyone who has shared their views – please continue - it really helps. Also to all those who've put this story on alert, as long as it's not to read an A/N saying I've stopped! As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me what you liked, what you didn't or that you've given up…**


	6. Diary Dates

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**OK, Ch. 6 – this one is a little fluffy; sorry. Again, it was needed… **

**There is a structure – and you all say 'really'? I'm not nearly good enough a writer to keep an open-ended story going. So I promise this tale does have a beginning, middle & end. The events in each chapter are already plotted out [sort of] – if you're curious, we're not halfway…. **

* * *

"_Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us."_

_Oscar Wilde_

**May 2010**

"...and I will be there to hear it, I promise."

Tony regretted the vow before Abby had time to materialize in the elevator. A vague sense of foreboding flashed through his mind as soon as he uttered the words.

Their friendship had stabilized. The playful banter was no longer forced, nor self-conscious – the quarrels were usually unguarded and uncomplicated. They even had a movie night; albeit within the safety-zone of the Navy Yard. This recapturing of their easy bond also signified a re-ignition of the latent attraction and emotions. Tony unconsciously described Ziva when articulating his dream woman. And he experienced an unexpected surge of dislike for Det. McCadden after the cop called her a cupcake, suggesting she was eminently screwable. In Ziva's case, she was discomfited and unhappy by Tony's fascination for a woman he had never met; a woman who was the polar opposite of Ziva. They had returned to the pre-Rivkin era. Except now the partnership was less straightforward than ever; which yielded its own unique type of friction.

"Does Agent Gibbs really believe the Reynosas would come after me?" M. Allsion Hart was sat in her office.

"No." "Yes." Tony and Ziva answered simultaneously. The lawyer gave them a slightly bewildered smile.

"Out of an abundance of caution, Ma'am," Tony started to explain, "Director Vance feels that…."

"Because of your support for Col. Bell and his association with a Mexican Drug Cartel." Ziva's matter-of-fact interjection was distinctly accusatory. Tony nudged her; a not-so-subtle hint to stop.

Neither of them trusted or liked the woman; her allegiances were suspect from the outset. Nevertheless they were supposed to be expressing NCIS' concern for her well-being. Closely linked to Bell and his organization; her co-operation may prove useful in the investigation. More pertinent, it may be of assistance to Gibbs. The lawyer covered her personal letdown; they had been sent by Vance – not Gibbs – and tried again.

"But if I follow his recommendation I will no longer be in any possible danger?"

"Yes." "No." It was an encore performance; the only difference being the swapped responses.

"Well, which is it?" Ms. Hart raised her eyebrows; implying disbelief that members of Gibbs' famously excellent team couldn't get their story straight.

"What _Probationary_ Agent David means is," Tony took a step forward, slightly blocking Ziva, "if you're warned of any potential risk," he employed his most reassuring manner, "you'll be better prepared and NCIS…."

"Special Agent DiNozzo is incorrect, Ms. Hart." Ziva interrupted; vexed by Tony pulling rank. "I have…." She paused, choosing her words carefully, "acquired targets who were very well aware of their peril; a true professional can…"

"Oh Christ, Zee-vah. Really?" Tony returned the favor and cut her off. "Do we have to do the whole Léon routine?" Finding it funny Ziva was so coyly describing some of her previous, lethal activities.

Ziva had turned to face him and they moved closer together as the mini flare-up sparked into life. Totally focused on each other; the reason for their visit and, even M. Allison Hart, momentarily forgotten. The events of the past few days had unfolded with breathtaking speed and surprise. Gibbs' behavior had been baffling; the team worried and unsettled. A couple of nights ago Tony had been very grateful for Ziva's 'assassin mode' expertise when trying to bust former cohorts of Col. Bell; completely relying on her to provide cover for McGee and himself.

"Tony, we are here to apprise Ms. Hart of Director Vance's worry, are we not?" The movie reference didn't register. "I am merely trying to illustrate my point." Ziva had stressed Vance's name with a little relish. As a woman, she had picked up on the unrequited torch for Gibbs.

"Yeah, well, how 'bout you don't." He stated firmly, recognizing where Ziva's dart was aimed. Tony had greater success in concealing his opinion of Ms. Hart.

"I understand, thank you, Agents." The lawyer observed for a moment, before dismissing them. "And please thank Director Vance for his consideration."

Tony held the door open for Ziva, muttering "that citizenship come with tact as an added bonus?"

"You will find out tomorrow." He grinned at the note of gleeful satisfaction in Ziva's voice.

"One last question, I'm curious by nature." M. Allison Hart smiled in false apology. "Are you two sleep….?" Ms. Hart had picked up on a vibe of her own. Her remark was an effort to repay Ziva.

"No." On this occasion they replied as a chorus; perfectly in time and forcefully on message. Both of them ignored the fact it was a frequently made mistake; and why people kept making it.

* * *

A short meeting in Vance's office proved Tony's premonition correct. He was being sent to Mexico and would miss Ziva's ceremony. The knowledge nagged away at him for the rest of the afternoon. He had never broken a promise to her. In truth he hadn't, actually, made many promises to Ziva. Tony didn't like to make commitments to anyone; for precisely this reason. However, he didn't realize how important keeping his word to Ziva was to him; until faced with the prospect of being unable to honor the pledge. The situation was unavoidable and it wasn't his fault. Those excuses did nothing to alleviate the sense he was failing her in some unquantifiable way.

They were preparing to leave, at the end of a fairly long, hectic day. Tony thoughtfully watched Ziva.

"Wanna grab something to eat?' It was an invite prompted by the need for atonement. She looked up, surprised.

"Why?" Typically, even in ignorance of his motives, she wouldn't make it easy for him.

"'Cause it's kinda late…I'm hungry…" Tony tried to maintain the causal on-the-spur-of-the-moment manner. "And it's my last chance to have dinner with the crazy Israeli chick." He added with a grin.

* * *

At first, Ziva was puzzled by Tony's choice of venue. Il Colle Aventino wasn't the generic, up-market establishment she was expecting; although the place was extremely busy. He had directed her to a small, Italian restaurant; tucked away in a side-street. She realized why Tony had nixed her offer to go home and change with the statement 'you'll do.' He was waiting at the bar; and seemed to be a well-known regular. As the waitress guided them to a table in a corner, a man approached.

"Hey Tony," He was tall, Aristocratic-looking and of Italian descent. "Saviero told me you were here." He shook Tony's hand, noticing Ziva and glancing questioningly at Tony.

"Miss Zee-vah David meet Il Conte Di Montefalco." Tony announced with a flourish. "Owner of one of the best kept secrets in D.C."

"The only kept secret in D.C." The man commented dryly. "Call me Bartolomeo."

"Piacere." Ziva extended her hand; rather than shaking it, the man kissed it with exaggerated formality.

"She speaks Italian, Tony?" He laughed at his friend. "You're finally developing taste after all these years."

"Yeah, 'cept she can kill you in eight other languages just as easily." Tony opted to dispel any date-like overtones. "Zee-vah's my partner."

"Ah" Comprehension lit his face, "the Ninja at last." Bartolomeo pulled Ziva's chair out.

"A Count?" She asked, casting a reproving look at Tony for publicizing her nickname. The glare was half-hearted. In reality, Ziva was completely entertained by the glimpse into a different side of Tony's life.

"Penniless nobility for centuries now: a familial weakness for gambling and whorehouses." Bartolomeo shrugged, indicating the dining room. "We've been here since Prohibition ended."

"_Legally_, that is." Tony smiled. "His grandpa was a rumrunner."

The ambience was perfect; friendly and comfortable; not romantic. Although it was candlelit and secluded and it was just the two of them – Gibbs would definitely raise an eyebrow. Despite being one of Tony's favorite haunts, he rarely brought women to this place; certainly not his usual, transitory barlationships. Not even Jeanne; Tony had told himself it was because of familiarity – it might blow his cover. However, the unclaimed reason was because he hadn't wanted to – he had no such qualms when it came to Ziva. A discrepancy in the depth of affection Tony conveniently overlooked.

"Here's to the corruption of an uptight, overly serious Mossad operative." Tony raised his wine glass in a toast. "Seduced by the American Dream."

Ziva returned the salute, smiling, "I thought you were the American Dream, Tony?"

"And your point is?" His tease dared her to make the connection.

Ziva deflected. "I was not uptight." She fiddled with her menu; considering whether to ask her question – curious about Tony's characterization of her when she joined NCIS.

"You did not like me then?" She picked up her wine glass; hesitant to resurrect the past.

"Oh you had me at 'phone sex, Zee-vah." Tony leant back in his chair with an easy smile "I just didn't wanna die that young."

She was irrationally delighted by his ability to remember such a minor detail from their first meeting. And surprised because it didn't fit with his image – yet, over the years, so much of Tony didn't fit Ziva's original profile of him. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask 'and now?' Trapped by uncertainty, Ziva repressed the thought; not willing to spoil the evening – even with a joke. At least, she convinced herself it would be a joke. She concentrated on ordering food as a means of distraction.

Tony and Ziva hardly ever just talked to one another. Their civilized discussions, bruising arguments - and all points in between – were usually about cases or connected to work. In all the time they had known each other, they conversed in fleeting, relatively impersonal terms. Even their most significant discussions consisted of partial, ambiguous exchanges – ill-timed and with too much left unsaid. Or, degenerating into conflict: when impossible desires and attraction swamped self-control. However, as the evening wore on they found themselves chatting unreservedly on a wide-range of subjects. There were no great revelations; some topics were avoided entirely and others mentioned only in passing. Tony and Ziva had managed to spend several hours – like regular people – simply enjoying being together.

"First kiss?" Ziva tilted her head with a playful smile.

"Which one?" He asked with beguiling sincerity.

"There can be only one." Her response was a mix of amused toleration and disbelief.

"Thank you Highlander." Tony sometimes wondered why he bothered – she was totally oblivious to the majority of his movie quips.

Halfway through dinner, Tony was reflecting that, thus far, the impromptu idea had been a success. According to some mystical force, May wasn't a good month for them – which was odd since Ziva had first invaded his life in May. Ever since that moment, she had become entangled in and taken possession of him – in ways Tony was still to completely analyze and absorb. Tonight he was pleased Ziva wasn't at home – perhaps brooding on May twelve months ago and her subsequent ordeal. The events and their consequences had caused so much unintended harm. Set in motion by a terrible chain-reaction; the results of unarticulated feelings and the machinations of outside influences. And all of it was compounded by extraordinary levels of miscommunication and misunderstanding. Tony acknowledged internally – on some level - he would act so very differently if offered a re-run.

"Explain." Ziva commanded; taking the bait. Aware she was being lured and deciding to indulge him. "Tony, you cannot have more than one first – of anything."

"Sure you can." Tony was at his most play-boyish. "There's the first when you're clueless, there's the first when you're not and then there's the first when you're in love." The charm was irresistible as he grinned wickedly, "'til you discover her favorite genre is musicals and her best friend looks hotter in the cheerleading uniform."

Ziva scrutinized him; trying to establish how much Tony was inventing as part of his roguish persona. He was irrepressible in this frame of mind. And, regardless of her efforts to resist, Ziva found herself affected. Tony was unfailingly capable of overriding every defensive instinct in her personality. The concept was disconcerting and confusing. From the very beginning, Ziva was perpetually torn. Her logical approach and training demanding she should remain detached; and her heart dictating she was inexorably drawn toward Tony.

"I like musicals." She made a light-hearted reproach.

"Seals it then, we'll never be involved." Briefly their eyes locked and the mood altered slightly before Tony persisted with his scenario, "Who's your best friend?"

"My best friend is Avigail, she has three children." Ziva laughed at the shameless suggestion, adding with mock menace. "And her husband is a Colonel in the IDF."

"OK, so I'll pass on her." The cavalier smile widened. "Next best?"

* * *

They extended dinner for far longer than was necessary. Both, unconsciously, reluctant to break the spell: the intangible power they held over one another. Walking outside, the atmosphere between them shifted from relaxed to a peculiar tension. Murphy's Law meant their cars were located in opposite directions. Although it was clearly the moment to part, Tony and Ziva lingered – she gazed pensively at the Washington landmarks visible in the landscape.

"This time tomorrow I will be an American Citizen." There was a minute's pause before she continued quietly. "You will not be there." It wasn't an inquiry; just a plain statement of truth.

"No." Tony didn't look at her; hands in his pockets, scuffing at the sidewalk with his foot. Amazed by her uncanny ability to read the circumstances – and him - she had sensed his trouble. Probably, Tony realized, since he'd left Vance's meeting.

"The Cartel?" Ziva peered underneath Tony's bowed head in an effort to make eye contact with him.

"Yes." This time, he did look at her; a resigned smile on his face. "Zee-vah, I'm sorry, I would…." He tailed off; there was no point in saying 'I would if I could' – because he couldn't.

"It cannot be helped." The dedicated soldier recognized the duty first principle. "And it is not important." Only a hint of disappointment showed.

Tony expected her attitude; Ziva was nothing if not rational and practical – most of the time. One ex-girlfriend had freaked over his missing her cousin's wedding – because he was working a child homicide. The experience only added to his pathological dislike of accompanying girlfriends to weddings – it encouraged the wrong kinds of ideas in their minds. An invite was usually the harbinger of a swift break-up. Inconvenience, risk and danger were part of the package deal for NCIS. They both accepted those limitations and disruptions. That didn't prevent Tony fervently wishing he'd been granted an extra twenty four hours. Although she would never admit the extent of feeling, Ziva's swearing-in was extremely significant to her. It signaled a turning point. In effect an absolute renunciation of her identity, her former life; including everything linked to that existence. And Tony understood that aspect – more than anyone else.

"Thank you. This was…lovely." Ziva stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "It was not overly serious." With an arch smile as she teased on his earlier definition.

If they were merely friends, colleagues, the evening would have arrived at a natural conclusion. If they were lovers, it would have taken a different – though equally natural – turn. Instead Tony and Ziva were caught in an agonizingly awkward No Man's Land; inhibited by conditions and insecurities. Neither able to unilaterally take the next step, nor withdraw. They were standing, almost touching, staring intently at each other.

"Hey Ninja…um…." Tony swallowed. Suddenly aware of how close she was to him; close enough he could smell the shampoo in her hair. Close enough he could feel her breath on his skin.

Tony's cell rang. It was Vance to give him last minute details.

"I have to take this." The note of helpless apology matched the look of exasperation in Tony's expression. "Yes Sir?"

Ziva nodded, lightly touched his arm; escaping from the encounter toward her car - and home. She walked briskly and tried to master her emotions. They had teetered on the very edge of the precipice. Ziva was pondering the concept; she would have capitulated without a second's thought. Their relationship had nearly evolved into uncharted, highly hazardous territory. And Ziva couldn't decide if she should be alarmed or happy. The combination was unnerving.

When Tony finished his call, he was certain Vance was determined to blight his life; both directly and indirectly. And he tried to subdue the feeling of gratification that Ziva would miss him tomorrow. It seemed weirdly disloyal. Tony briefly contemplated going after Ziva. Only prevented by the realization he would have no clue of what to say to her. Another opportunity – though the exact nature of the opportunity was obscured - had been lost. Tony didn't know whether to be relieved or frustrated. What if they hadn't been interrupted and what the ramifications meant – were problems he was, currently, unable to grasp or figure out.

* * *

**Thanks to everyone who has shared their views. Your reward: Ch. 7 will be up - possibly by the time you finish reading this note…no review slacking though! Thanks also for all the alerts. **

**As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me what made sense; that I'm crazy, that you really like it or I should stop.**


	7. Slings and Arrows PtI

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**OK, Ch. 7 – with this one, and some luck, you might guess where I'm going or maybe not…. **

**And the usual for the background details.….**

* * *

"_The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,"_

_William Shakespeare_

**July 2010**

McGee exited the elevator and immediately wished he could step back in and return to Abby's lab. Tony and Ziva were quarreling – again. From the day Ziva had arrived at NCIS, she and Tony had been transfixed by each other. Their partnership was a combustible concoction of egos, idiosyncrasies, cultural differences and, bizarrely enough, exceptional devotion. The final ingredient was an elemental, incendiary-level sexual chemistry. And it was all sealed within a containment chamber formed by Gibbs' Rule and a high-octane work environment. The resulting reactions involved intrigue and elation; encompassed drama and despair. It had spanned years and continents.

Although he considered himself no expert in such matters, McGee had concluded, based on the evidence, his co-workers were in love with each other. As a writer he mentally compared the relationship to an insane literary blend. Pride and Prejudice meets Wuthering Heights with a dash of Romeo and Juliet thrown in for good measure. McGee was rarely susceptible to such grandiose musings; definitely not when the firestorm which characterized much of the relationship was raging. On those occasions, he tried to stay out of the firing line and hoped for one of three outcomes. That Tony would be able to withstand and, ultimately, neutralize Ziva's wrath. That Ziva would surrender or become distracted. Or his preferred remedy; something would happen to realign their perverse yin and yang; thus restoring short-term peace.

"Why will you not be reasonable, Tony?" Judging by Ziva's voice, at present, this dispute was low on the thermodynamic scale.

"What?" And Tony sounded only mildly irked rather than angry. "Like you?"

They had been tailing a known associate of the Reynosas. Somehow, Ziva had instigated a bar brawl.

"I have apologized." Ziva didn't seem especially contrite. "Perhaps if you had not been drooling over the eye cotton," A little venom crept into her tone and the temperature rose. "The suspect would not have eluded you." Her criticism increased the acrimony.

McGee arrived at his desk. "Er…. Ziva…I think you mean candy – eye candy, cotton candy." He made the correction cautiously, "Although…I can see how you…anyone really…could mix them up."

It appeared his assumption about the state of Ziva's temper was wrong. McGee didn't want to throw a lighted match into the pyre. He needn't have worried about the precaution; Tony did instead.

"Oh just fuck off, Zee-vah." Now Tony really was nettled. "Perhaps if you hadn't decided on your little deadlier-than-thou contest," There was a stinging sarcasm in his words, "I wouldn't 've had to take the other guy down." Tony continued, "You know? The guy we _weren't _after."

Ziva pushed her chair back; about to move the dispute to closer quarters. McGee shook his head; unable to comprehend why Tony hadn't just ignored her remark. Since Tony's return from Mexico, these battle lines had been drawn with renewed frequency. Apparently Tony and Ziva had repaired their friendship, after months of difficulty. Unfortunately, from McGee's perspective, with that repair came the unbridled bickering and teasing of earlier years. Some of it fun, some of it acerbic and some of it deemed downright hostile. The release valve which prevented the simmering - more complicated - components of their relationship from reaching boiling point; except when it failed.

"Perhaps if both of you were doin' your jobs, we'd have someone to question." Gibbs' sudden, sharp reprimand brought the argument to an abashed close. "Grab your gear. We got a dead Marine."

* * *

The team was juggling the latest developments in Gibbs' feud with a Mexican drug cartel with the new case. That alone was creating extra pressures in squad room. Additionally, Tony and Ziva were still snidely playing the blame game for the previous day's slip-up. Vance had already lectured them on bringing the Agency into disrepute. The omens didn't augur well for a pleasant day. McGee was frantically fabricating an excuse to seek cover elsewhere.

Sgt. Joe Roberts had been found dead – shot – in the grounds of Charles Scott's property. Roberts was still on active duty, recently returned from a tour in Afghanistan. Scott was a former Marine. There was no obvious motive at this stage in the investigation - and nothing to link the two men.

"Two Marines: one dead, one alive." Gibbs' looked at his team – expecting answers, "connection?" He didn't need to mention the co-incidence word for them to understand him.

His team looked back; with the air of children on Report Card Day. With no answers to that particular question, they responded with what they did know.

"Roberts was in Afghanistan until a couple of months ago." McGee began the report session. "His family said he was in the D.C. area to see a couple of friends."

The friends had all checked out. No suspects; their only usefulness in providing a time-line and pattern of Roberts' movements before his murder.

"Scott?" Gibbs growled

"No, Boss. They didn't know each other." McGee tried to sound convincing; from the look on Gibbs' face clearly it wasn't working. "I am…still checking 'phone records and so…something might…."

The two men had never met, never served together; never even spoken. Scott and Roberts were, apparently, each oblivious to the other's existence. All the evidence suggested there was no connection. McGee floundered. He didn't want to actually say the 'C' word. It would be tantamount to denying the sun rose in the East, whilst claiming to be keeping a Yeti in the backyard.

"Roberts was well liked and his service record is spotless." Ziva took over the briefing to aid McGee; the Three Musketeers axiom at work. "He suffered minor wounds, a few years ago- he returned to duty."

"He didn't shoot himself." Gibbs' curt statement indicated they needed to try harder.

"That it?" His team shuffled uneasily. Essentially, that was it.

Tony contributed to the discussion. "Scott; honorably discharged, nearly three years ago, dealer in fine art and antiquities and, currently, running for public office."

"Charles Scott was an unremarkable Marine; not popular, maybe even…." Tony tried to slide the unconfirmed detail past Gibbs, "unpopular."

The ruse didn't work.

"With who and why?" Fixing his senior agent with a stare which suggested a higher standard was expected.

"Um, working on it Boss." Tony evaded and was irritated by Ziva's smirk of enjoyment at his justification of a fail grade. "General opinion is he was using the Corps; then found himself fighting a war. Not in touch with any of his former comrades; seems his only area of expertise was I&I."

"Intelligence and infiltration?" Ziva queried the term.

"You would think that." Tony scoffed mockingly. "Definitely not the first; depends how you'd define the second." The explanation was patronizing. "Intoxication and intercourse."

On a different day, the sparring would have been classed as entertainment – witty repartee. Yesterday's spat had spilt over into this morning. There was a particularly spiteful undertone to the script. They weren't playing. They were trying to cause hurt; as if the creation of conflict would compensate for the unaddressed tensions lurking between them. Supplying a diversion from other matters and providing a channel for unsettling emotions.

"Sounds like your life story Tony." Ziva's retorted scornfully.

"Better than death and destruction, Zee-vah." When Tony bit back, his reply was undisguised unkindness.

Ziva's expression left McGee in no doubt Tony had hit his mark. And in Ziva's realm a fight wasn't over until someone had won. The litmus paper had just dramatically altered color and the prospect of a fierce argument became more likely. McGee hoped he would be required to visit Abby, Autopsy or anywhere really when it broke out.

Gibbs had noticed Tony and Ziva's exchanges during the recent weeks. He had spent five years on fire control for their relationship. Sometimes his method of dealing with the smoldering stresses was to separate them. Such a course of action had two effects. Usually whatever embers were glowing had time to die down – relieving the immediate danger of severe discord. The downside was absence seemed to magnify their need to be around each other. It was a constant balancing act; keeping them apart would only work for a short length of time. However, Gibbs judged today might require intervention. With the concurrent cases of the Reynosas and the Roberts' inquiry, Gibbs couldn't afford to have his MCRT operating at anything less than absolute peak.

"We're still trying to contact one member of Scott's unit from Iraq, Boss." Tony returned to the case. "Second Lieutenant Will Miller, wounded in Iraq and living somewhere in the Metro area."

Gibbs nodded, thought for a few moments and decided on his plan of attack. "McGee; locate Miller. See what he knows about Scott."

His team functioned competently and professionally. In part because Gibbs was ever vigilant in maintaining smooth operation; not just with regard to the paradox of Tony and Ziva. Re-arranging the players and rôles also assisted in obtaining the most advantageous results. If permitted, McGee would remain permanently glued to his screens and gadgets. Undoubtedly the area of his greatest skill; however, it would do him good to get out from behind the technology for a change.

"Boss, his last known address is two years old?" McGee was surprised by the order. "I thought I could try…."

Gibbs cocked an eyebrow. "Start looking." McGee was even more surprised by Gibbs' next command. "Take Ziva with you." He turned his stare to Tony. "DiNozzo; question Scott."

The deck was reshuffled and the team headed out on their allotted assignments.

* * *

Tony had been grateful to receive the urgent call back to the Navy Yard. Charles Scott proved to be smugly annoying and not very forthcoming; all the while proclaiming his noble willingness to assist NCIS. Tony was left with the distinct impression Scott was hiding something. That and the certain fact Tony didn't like him. When he strolled into the bull-pen, that afternoon, Tony noticed three things immediately. Ziva was missing from the bull-pen – not unlikely. Gibbs, who was on the 'phone, looked as if one wrong word would lead to instantaneous death by Marine; not unusual. The third was McGee's nervous delivery as he spoke – pretty standard.

"Tony, I'm sorry." McGee's apology was heartfelt.

"What'd you do this time, McWorry?" Tony grinned. "You break my Mighty Mouse stapler?" And then he noticed McGee's ashen – nearly grey – hue and Tony's smile became a rictus of dread.

Gibbs slammed down his 'phone, shot a searching stare at Tony and confirmed his worst fears. "Miller's got Ziva."

* * *

The lieutenant had confiscated McGee's 'phone, gun and the car keys. By the time McGee had been able to obtain back-up, Miller and Ziva had vanished from the vicinity. The search was conducted in an atmosphere of quietly frenzied activity. Local law enforcement officers were working the area and found the abandoned vehicle. Gibbs and his agents had re-located to headquarters in order to utilize every resource available. Initially, optimism was raised because of the GPS signal from both Ziva and McGee's cells. It was soon dashed. Miller had smashed them; scattering the pieces, like a taunting trail of breadcrumbs.

Gibbs and Tony stood in front of the plasma; poring over Miller's information.

"He's clever." Tony stated. The strain of trying to appear just as concerned as everyone else – no more, no less – was beginning to take its toll. "And he's a fucking nut-job."

Gibbs glanced sympathetically at Tony; the façade wasn't fooling anyone. "He's taken her for a reason." The words were calm. "Find the reason." It was as close as Gibbs would ever get to 'warm and fuzzy' comfort.

"Er, Boss." McGee had been taking sanctuary with Abby; unable to face Tony for any length of time. "Ducky wants to see you."

"Good." Gibbs had requested Ducky profile Miller. He looked at McGee and Tony. "Find the reason." He reiterated the point of focus, striding toward the elevator.

Tony walked over to the windows and stared out across the city. He had told her he could prevent history repeating. Yet she was being held captive again – the replay accurate right down the nasty disagreement prior to the disaster. As it grew dark, Tony tried not to think of Ziva's face in the hotel room in Paris – her look of apprehension just before the light went out.

* * *

**Thanks to everyone who has shared their views. Thanks also for all the alerts. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me what you liked, or not, that I've lost you – anything really!**


	8. A Sea of Troubles

**A****/N: ****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Arrrgh: many apologies for the delay. Life interfered with my writing time. Then I talked myself out of finishing it – we don't really need another post-Somalia story…. Then I found I couldn't write a new story because I had chapters of this sat on my hard-drive, annoying me.**

**Ch. 8 – there's a little switching coming up for the next chapters. Not timeline but POV's – not sure if it worked like it should. Anyway, here goes.**

**Again with background and details. **

* * *

"_Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,_

_And by opposing end them."_

_William Shakespeare_

* * *

**July 2010**

Washington D.C. was in the grip of a mini heat wave. The meteorologists' classification was something of a misnomer. Although it may have only lasted four days; there was nothing diminutive about the temperatures. The mercury had scorched fifteen degrees above average with sapping humidity. A reminder of why the city had been an unpopular posting amongst some diplomats prior to the advent of air-conditioning.

Since his first rambling outburst, Miller had acted with lucid, cunning composure. Abandoning the car, on the other side of the city from where he'd seized Ziva, they had moved once more from the location in which Ziva had regained consciousness. He had tied her bootlaces together, and then released the bonds around her ankles, to allow her to walk. He kept a gun trained on her at all times on their journey. Ziva had been grateful for the movement – easing cramped muscles and aching limbs – despite the handcuffs.

To an onlooker, it would have resembled a strange, shuffling procession as they picked their way through the sprawling, derelict industrial complex. Ziva's impeded steps mimicking Miller's own halting gait. She guessed his objective; to be as far from the entry road and any other chance of accidental discovery as possible. He finally selected the recess of a cavernous building – finding cover inside a partially divided, smaller space. What must have been in former days an office or, perhaps, storage room.

They had progressed in silence. Ziva reconnoitering her surroundings; quietly alert as she estimated distances, routes and cover. Striving for a glimpse of landmarks; seeking a clue as to her whereabouts. And, more importantly, an indication of in which direction she should head – if she should escape. Watching Miller; noting his strengths and, in addition to his damaged leg, gauging potential weak points.

"It'll be safer here." He waved the gun, indicating for her to sit. "Crack heads and bums don't come in this far."

Ziva frowned, puzzled by his reasoning. She had assumed it was to keep her hidden from those looking for her. Not for security purposes.

"You should release me." Deciding to repeat her attempts and carefully avoiding the mention of any mistakes.

Miller ignored this statement. Motioning again for her to sit; she obeyed and he tucked the weapon into his waistband. Limping over, he fastened her cuffed hands to a stout, metal pipe behind her. Looping a rope through and around, several times, until he was satisfied they were secure and tightly tying it off.

"If you release me now, the consequences will not be….as serious." She would try firm persuasion; she would not bargain, nor beg. Only once, when faced with such a situation, had Ziva ever resolved anything but steadfast resistance and determination. That occasion was when she offered Saleem her life; in exchange for Tony's.

Ziva did not suggest she would let him go unpunished if he co-operated. Her remark was typically honest and hardheaded. There would be consequences; Miller could limit the severity of them by making the sensible choice. If he did set her free, she had every intention of reversing the positions of captor and captive within seconds; using considerable, possibly deadly, force if necessary.

"Consequences?" He gave an odd, disinterested shrug. As if whatever repercussions might befall him, were immaterial; trivial. Miller took the water canteen out of his back-pack and, once again, assisted Ziva to drink.

"Thank you." She smiled in appreciation. The notion of an adverse outcome hadn't registered with him. She returned to trying consistent neutrality as an approach.

Ziva rested her head against the pipe; assessing Miller. Her mind was clearer than on her primary appraisal of him. And, apparently, his plan was to remain here – in the short-term. It was from this base any escape effort would need to be made. He was unkempt and scruffy; not exactly clean but not filthy or squalid either. Obviously organized and capable of strategizing: up to an, as yet indeterminate, point. He had several days' growth of dirty blond stubble and his hair was straggly and a little long. She knew he had been living on the streets for a considerable length of time. Evidently he tried to care for his personal hygiene. Military discipline must still hold good; at least in some areas of his existence. That conclusion could provide her with an access point.

"I am an NCIS Agent," Ziva kept her voice calm and collected. "My partner will be searching for me."

She knew the whole team; in fact the entire Agency and anyone else they could press-gang into service would be involved. Nevertheless, the idea Tony would be looking for her supplied particular comfort.

He stayed silent. Ziva repressed the small flash of frustrated impatience – negotiation only worked if two people were conversing. She reflected ruefully, in temperament, Tony was much more suited to this scenario. Miller moved towards her feet; he began to separate her boot laces. Ziva thought the first, slim, opportunity had presented itself. Her legs were highly effective weapons. He stopped, before the task was complete. Glancing up at her, Miller pulled a length of rope from his pocket.

"Don't be thinking something foolish now," Miller cautioned. "Anything happens to me….that partner of yours might never find you."

Her irritation was replaced by fleeting surprise – the last comment was accompanied by a shy smile. It wasn't a threat; he was trying to make a joke on the reality. Even if she could aim and land an adequately productive kick, her hands were still restrained and she was attached to an immovable object. As he bound her legs together, Ziva didn't know whether to categorize his manner as disturbing or harmlessly bizarre.

"Why are you holding me?" Thus far she had not asked this question.

Miller finished tying her legs and returned to her boot laces. He kept his head down and seemed to be holding a silent, internal debate with himself. The development tipped her classification in favor of disturbing; this couldn't be a good sign.

"Lieutenant Miller?" Perhaps appealing to him under his former rank would gain his attention.

"I don't know..." It was an answer – just not a very profitable one. ".…seemed like it might help some."

He sounded perplexed by his own actions. Another check went into the disturbed column. Loosening the laces, he slipped her boots and socks off her feet. Placing each sock inside a boot with almost comical care; as though he were worried they might get lost. Miller moved back level with her and offered Ziva more water. At first she declined, wanting to persist in talking with him.

"You'll get thirsty." He urged.

Ziva complied; it was horribly hot. The accumulated heat of the day leached out from the structure's walls and floors. Although there was no longer sunlight, the air still seemed to be burning. Within minutes Ziva was extremely glad she did drink. Miller rummaged around in his back-pack, produced a none-too-clean bandana and gagged her.

"If you yell; no telling who'll show up." - Shaking his head reproachfully at her as he made the explanation. "I need to go for a while."

Miller stood and picked up his bag. He set it down on the other side of the space – well out of Ziva's reach. Then he left.

* * *

Ziva considered her predicament. To begin with there was no way of knowing – for certain – if Miller would come back. She struggled against the cuffs; desperately trying to force her hand through the bracelet. Only succeeding in bruising joints and chafing the skin; the sweat stung as it trickled down her arms. Frustrated, she looked around for something with which to pick them – to no avail.

Her captor was intelligent – thus far he had taken every precaution to prevent her escape. Removing her footwear had underlined that fact; in theory it was harder to run barefoot. Although, Miller had seriously underestimated Ziva's fortitude in this regard: she would coolly flee naked if required. His thought process had appeared rational and methodical. Yet, clearly, he was very troubled. Ziva's initial evaluation of the circumstances hadn't changed. Until she could alter the status quo, gain possession of a weapon, she had to remain passive.

She also tried to make sense of the reason he had kidnapped her in the first place. Miller could have had no forewarning McGee and Ziva were looking for him – nor why. There could be no scheme being followed. Moreover, the peculiar efforts at thoughtfulness had continued. The former lieutenant had seemed more concerned she may come to some harm; rather than inflicting it.

As night swapped with day, the evening became stagnant, airless and even more oppressive. Ziva utilized focus on finding a solution to her problems to distract from the darkness. She had improved immeasurably as the months passed. Nevertheless, currently, she was trapped in an isolated location; her only contact was a man whose mental stability was questionable. She was, essentially, defenseless; never a state which made her comfortable under favorable conditions. And these particular ones were decidedly unfavorable.

She recognized the uneven footsteps before she saw the dim light moving toward her. Miller reappeared with another back-pack. He had been foraging for provisions – treating her presence as though Ziva were an unexpected dinner guest. Miller fed Ziva first; displaying the same, almost old-fashioned, courtesy in ensuring she had sufficient to eat and drink. Then he withdrew to the other side of the space – eating whilst arranging a sleeping bag and other supplies. Eventually he sat down and began methodically checking over his cache of weapons.

"Your partner only carries one." Miller had assessed the fact Ziva had been armed with two guns and a knife to McGee's single weapon. He had also been observing her behavior.

Ziva corrected his assumption. "McGee is not my partner…." Then she hesitated. She always thought of Tony as her partner but, technically, this wasn't true. "We are on the same team."

Miller glanced at her. "What happened to your partner, then?"

"Nothing." Ziva tried to explain the mistake. "We are all part of a team. It is similar to a squad." Seeking language he would comprehend.

Miller nodded, flatly stating. "You're the trigger-puller though."

In the weak light, Ziva had been watching him handle the firearms with expert ease. She wanted to note the location in which he placed them and was mentally calculating the number of rounds available; a total of twenty-two. Although, once she could obtain a gun, Ziva would only require one bullet. Based upon what she knew of Miller so far, she surmised he also would only require one to achieve the same result.

Naturally, she didn't understand the slang. "I am a Federal Agent; we are armed and receive training." – Hoping if she told him often enough, the seriousness of his crime might register.

Miller shook his head. "No, Ma'am." - Using the form of address for a female officer and again the shy smile lit his face. "You're a soldier too."

Ziva was taken aback by his intuition. "Yes, I have served in the military." She tilted her head. "A long time ago."

It wasn't really such a very long time ago. However, to Ziva it seemed sometimes as though that existence belonged to someone else. So much had happened in the intervening years she felt she was a different person. Moreover, those ties were renounced with her adoption of American citizenship. It was a distant world which now belonged to Eli, Mossad and Ari – part of her past.

Once he had finished with his arrangements, Miller limped out of the shadows, toward her, carrying something. Crouching down, he reached out to grab hold of Ziva's clothing. She panicked; recoiling and trying to twist away.

"Do not…." The words were a command but her voice involuntarily betrayed Ziva.

Miller stopped, bewildered. "I'm sorry." And he sounded genuinely distressed. "I thought you'd be a mite more comfortable sitting on this." He held up a crumpled jacket.

Ziva released a breath. "Thank you." Realizing he was only trying to slide the padding beneath her and inwardly furious with herself for revealing fear; for experiencing fear.

After tucking another unrecognizable piece of material behind Ziva's head and neck, Miller stood over her for a few moments studying his prisoner. Her reaction was unexpected and Miller seemed both interested and confused by the event. He shuffled back to the other side of the room and extinguished the only light source. Ziva closed her eyes in the sudden darkness as the unpleasantly familiar wave washed through her system; before forcing calm and composure to take control.

* * *

**Thanks for the correction on the stapler in the last chapter – months ago now! And for anyone else, if you find any glaring inaccuracies/errors, I've no problem with you pointing them out.**

**A huge thank you to everyone who has posted a review – especially to those who posted one since I last updated. It is very helpful to know what you think. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. If you can please post a review; tell me what you liked, what you didn't or that you've given up and don't care anymore…**


	9. Battalions of Sorrow

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**OK, Ch. 9 – still the switched POV. For this one, I've had to write more detail with the case – just as a plot device. It won't stand up to much examination!**

**And the usual for the background details.….**

* * *

**Slings and Arrows Part II**

"_When sorrows come, they come not single spies_

_But in battalions."_

_William Shakespeare_

* * *

**July 2010**

"I wouldn't have taken the shot either." – A kind, reassuring remark.

McGee was avoiding Tony like the senior agent was carrying the combined bacterial load of Cholera, Leprosy and the Bubonic Plague. Still not certain how Ziva became a hostage, he was unnecessarily guilt-ridden over his hesitation and subsequent failure not to take action. It was bad enough explaining to Gibbs; repeating the story for his friend had been truly horrible. Once complete, he had tried to disappear – not entirely easy since his talents were crucial to finding Ziva. Tony finally caught up with him in the Break Room. McGee, with his back to the door, was stocking up on comfort snacks – and nearly jumped out of his skin. His first thought, once he peeled himself off the ceiling, was Tony had been spending way too much time with Ziva – stealth skills must be contagious.

"Not even for Ziva?" McGee turned round with a look of appreciation for Tony's older brotherly gesture.

Tony shook his head but before he could say anything, McGee continued meaningfully. "Especially not Ziva."

Now it was Tony's turn to be surprised. It was the first time McGee had ever made a direct reference to the unique relationship between Tony and Ziva. They were a closely bonded unit; all teammates. Nevertheless, McGee was articulating the differential in the nature of that dynamic.

"Not for anyone." Tony deflected firmly; slightly unnerved by McGee's bold observation.

McGee collected his selections from the machine and walked toward the exit. "Ziva would have."

Tony helped himself to one of the candy bars – reverting to more typical older brother type behavior. "That's because Zee-vah can make those types of shot." – Pointing out the obvious distinction. "Plus, you know, Zee-vah just likes shooting things." - Pointing out the other obvious distinction.

McGee watched admiration, affection, and concern chase across Tony's face. For Tony, it felt good to talk about her. Much easier than during Ziva's previous captivity: not least because for part of that time, talking about her had meant using the past tense. Something he had found incredibly difficult to handle.

As they walked back to the bull-pen, McGee spoke confidently. "We'll get her back, Tony." After his usual studious appraisal of all factors, he added – through a mouthful of chocolate - "I wouldn't want to be Miller, though, when Ziva gets free."

For the first time in several hours Tony smiled - in agreement at McGee's sentiment. "Gibbs wants us with Ducky." He clapped McGee on the shoulder and swiped another candy bar. "I'm waiting on a call-back; tell him I'll be down in a five."

* * *

"I just wanna ask him one question." Despite his calm conversation with McGee, as the hours ticked by, anyone and everyone was a likely victim of Tony's aggravation. It was now close to midnight and, essentially, the team knew nothing. "I don't care what time of night it is." This unlucky soul was the room-mate of someone Tony was trying to contact. "Wake him up, or I'll come down there and fucking do it myself." Tony's delivery made the threat very convincing.

After a terse conference, followed by a totally out of place pleasant 'thank you' – given the earlier tirade - Tony went to join the others in Autopsy.

"….Thus, considering what we know so far, I do not believe Miller to be a killer. And, therefore, it is unlikely he is the murderer of Sgt. Roberts." Ducky was finishing a summary of his profile when Tony slipped into the room.

"You might wanna reconsider that belief, Ducky." Everyone looked at Tony. "Just got off the 'phone with a guy from Bethesda; Roberts and Miller were in rehab. together for a while." Tony looked at Gibbs. "According to the Physical Therapist, they were buddies."

In a way it was good news, the first real concrete link. However, as Tony's sober look indicated, it was also bad news – Roberts was dead.

Tony cocked his head. "Think Roberts was in town to see Miller?"

"Maybe." Although it would seem hardly possible, in times of urgency or stress, Gibbs became even less talkative. He turned his attention back to the body. "Time and cause?"

"Time? Oh, I should say about twenty-four hours." Ducky moved around the table. "Based upon an internal reading, weather conditions and so forth. Rigor is fully present and has not begun to ease." He used a limb in demonstration. "Cause of death is undoubtedly this gunshot wound here." He indicated the small entry hole in the skull. "There is an entry and exit wound in his side – a flesh wound really – I believe the bullet found at the scene will match the one we removed." He held up a jar containing the slug. "I'll send this to Abby for her analysis, Jethro…."

Gibbs interrupted. "I sent Abby home."

Earlier in the evening Gibbs had taken the decision. There was nothing which required Abby's forensic expertise at present. Gibbs had forced her to leave - persuading Abby that he would be counting on all her abilities in the morning. Otherwise, always distraught over any calamity befalling any member of Team Gibbs, Abby would only sit in her lab. Fretting and over-dosing on Caf-Pow – with no target for all that ingested stimulant – it would be ugly. For the time being, she would be much better off at home. McGee made a mental note to check on her later. Abby might be at home, McGee knew she wouldn't be asleep.

"Theory, Duck?" Gibbs continued to manage the investigation by means of minimal communication.

"Mr. Palmer identified scorching on Sgt. Roberts' hand." – With a trace of praise for his assistant. "There was gunshot residue. I believe Abby will also find some on his clothing." Ducky perched on his desk and scratched his head. "I suspect there was a scuffle. Perhaps a struggle for control of the gun; the first shot may have been accidental. Certainly that injury was not fatal." He sighed. "The head shot was quite deliberate. It was most definitely not accidental and, one must assume, calculated to kill."

There were a few moments of silence as everyone absorbed the implication of Ducky's words. Whoever had shot Roberts had done so in cold-blood and without mercy.

"But how would Miller get to the Scott house?" McGee cast optimistic doubt on the unspoken, group assumption. "We know he has mobility problems."

As yet, there was no answer to that question.

Then Palmer –the keen student wanting to learn – raised a topic with his usual unfortunate artistry. "Er, Agent Gibbs, if we know where Ziva was taken….approximately I mean….it's a vast area, I know but why not use search dogs and…er, more manpower." He was somewhat afraid of the former Marine.

Gibbs fixed Palmer with one of his 'not now' stares and Ducky answered on his behalf; "Because Mr. Palmer, the noise of dogs and a massive search effort might be disturbing." The note of praise was gone, its place taken by gentle irritation. "If Miller is mentally unbalanced, and there is very good evidence in support of _that_ conclusion…." Ducky stopped, choosing the next phrase carefully.

Leaning against one of the walls, Tony quietly completed the explanation. "If he panics, he might kill her."

The fact it wasn't an annoyed put-down or sarcastic snap made poor Palmer feel a great deal worse.

Back in the squad-room, McGee yawned. "Miller knew Roberts and Scott but Scott didn't know Roberts." The pieces of the puzzle were odd.

"That we know of." Gibbs amended the reasoning. "Nothing more to do tonight: go home." Noticing they were both about to register impassioned rebellion, he leveled the 'that's an order' stare. "It'll be a long day tomorrow. You boys go on home now."

Obedience wasn't negotiable. Gibbs was using fatherly terminology; the use of the word 'boys' was an extremely bad sign. There was also dispassionate logic to the mandate – worried people made mistakes; exhausted worried people were next to useless. Also, temporal distance from a case allowed their minds to create alternative scenarios; often sparking a break. And tomorrow would, indeed, be a very long day.

* * *

"Yeah, OK, I owe you." He grinned. "You'll have her number by tonight." Tony hung up. "Looks like we got a weapon."

His satisfied remark was aimed at Gibbs exiting the elevator. It was revoltingly early in the morning. After reluctant compliance last night, the two agents had returned to the Navy Yard just before sunrise; Tony first, McGee about half an hour later. Tony hadn't slept – in the strictest meaning of the word – fitfully napping on the sofa. However, some rest, food and a shower had been beneficial.

"Get it to Abby." Striding through the bull-pen, Gibbs peeled off a faded, worn Marine Corps. sweatshirt – obviously on his way to change the rest of his clothes.

Tony realized his boss hadn't gone home. Gibbs had snatched a couple of hours sleep on an autopsy slab before setting out to look for Ziva. His destination was the city's homeless population; discovering more about Miller, asking if anyone had seen Ziva. Amidst that particular sub-culture it was an intelligent tactic. The Gunny, who exuded absolute trustworthiness and honor from his blue eyes, stood a better chance of acquiring information. The interviewees were more likely to be open and less suspicious with Gibbs, than with police officers who represented officialdom and hassle.

"Already on its way." Tony hesitated. "Boss?" The question didn't need to be asked. Gibbs shook his head without halting his purposeful journey.

Tony didn't know what his boss had been doing; only that indefatigable dedication to his team meant Gibbs wouldn't stop until she was back.

"Sitrep." Gibbs re-appeared expecting his update.

"We know the gardener found the body about 6:45 yesterday morning." Tony paused. Less than a day ago, they'd been standing on the same spot, discussing the same case. He recalled his last words to Ziva. Somehow it seemed more time should have elapsed. "Given Ducky's time of death; and from what Scott told me yesterday, he and his wife have an alibi – airtight." He looked steadily at Gibbs, shrugging. "Some cocktail party; we've talked to over a dozen people who saw them."

Gibbs grunted in displeasure. "McGee?"

McGee, who was still reeling from the earful he'd received from a respected author about telephoning people at that hour, wasn't quite ready. "Yes Boss?" Realizing it was his turn, he hastily apologized, "Sorry…."

Then realized he wasn't supposed to be apologizing and started over. "There's a lot of background stuff." He retrieved the clicker and displayed the beaming photo of Charles Scott. "According to his web-site, he came from nothing." McGee reluctantly delivered the bad news. "He inherited a modest amount of capital, used contacts made while serving in Iraq and built a thriving import business in Fine Art and Persian antiques. He's a pillar of the community, seeking election and, basically, clean-as-a-whistle."

"Roberts?" Gibbs wanted at least one connection – even if it was only to establish the deceased's reasons for being dead.

Tony shook his head. "Scott said he didn't know him." - Tapping his fingers on Gibbs' desk; mounting frustration becoming evident. "He was an exemplary Marine, impeccable record and had a great career ahead of him. Heavily involved in a charity for African American Vets. - but we knew all this yesterday." Tony irritably finished the catalogue.

Gibbs stood staring thoughtfully at the photo. "Keep on it. I'll be with Abby." He glanced to the upper level. "After I've briefed Vance." The faintest of grimaces crossed his face; considering bureaucracy was wasting valuable time with meetings.

To be fair, the Director had provided excellent, for the most part un-meddlesome, support. Mobilizing every avenue of external assistance; he was genuinely worried about his agent. Also, he was friends with her father which was an additional minor source for Gibbs' irritation. Vance merely asked that Gibbs gave periodic reports. As he came down the stairs, on the way to Abby, McGee called out an excited interception.

"Boss, I've two 'phone calls here from Roberts' cell to Scott." Qualifying the discovery; it wasn't proof of personal contact with Scott. "Well, to his election H.Q. anyway."

Tony was already collecting his badge and gun, sliding back his chair, before Gibbs issued the order. "DiNozzo, bring him in here for questioning." Announcing a variation of Rule #1 would be applied. "I'll talk to the wife at the house."

* * *

Tony was sitting opposite Charles Scott; exceedingly grateful for the prohibition on guns in the interrogation room. Were it not for that, he would be in imminent danger of losing his badge. First the man had kept him waiting; pleading a hectic schedule. Since it was, at this stage, only an informal arrangement, Tony was forced by legal civilities to concede. He had arrived - lawyered-up from one the city's top firms - which added to Tony's innate mistrust of Scott. And - despite Tony's best efforts - he appeared guilty of nothing more than being a repulsive specimen of humanity.

"As I told you yesterday, and again today, Agent DiNozzo, Elizabeth and I were out all that evening." He leaned toward his lawyer. "John held a small gathering to celebrate the latest poll numbers…" - Continuing a brief chat on mutual acquaintances, eventually returning his attention to Tony. "The gardener found the body; we called the police and have nothing more to add."

The message was clear; he was well-connected, he and his extremely expensive legal advisor moved in the same social circles and he had co-operated for nearly half an hour. The affair was beneath him; the NCIS Agent was wasting his valuable time and his patience was beginning to wear thin.

"Agent Zee-vah David wasn't missing when we talked yesterday." Tony replied stonily; unmoved by the display of prestige. "Times; when you left your house, arrived at the party, left the party and arrived back at your house."

Tony's patience had run out roughly ten minutes before Scott's entrance. He was conducting the interrogation in shirt sleeves. Whilst left cooling his heels Tony had removed his jacket, undone his collar and loosened his tie; a not-so-subtle mark of disrespect. Now he unfastened cuff-links and rolled up his sleeves. Tony's message was also clear; they might be here a while.

Scott smiled with oily charm. "It was a party, not a race – I wasn't timing us." - Laughing at his jocularity, conducting another side-bar with the lawyer on an unrelated matter and making Tony wait again. "I couldn't say for sure."

Tony's smile would have frozen the Potomac. "Try." The hardened cop emerged.

"You really should talk to Elizabeth…." Scott ignored Tony's unyielding request.

"My boss is." Tony interrupted coolly. "Times."

At the mention of Gibbs' interview with Mrs. Scott, her husband tensed by the tiniest degree.

"We left the house at around 7:20, arrived by 7:45." Scott stopped for a moment, thinking. "Left again by 11:30 and were home just after midnight." He held up his hands in fake surrender. "I confess." The patronizing manner grated on Tony's already frayed nerves. "To a speed violation, we were running late." - Jokingly pinning the blame on his wife. "Elizabeth was driving – do I need to arrange bail?"

Once again, he enjoyed his own humor and tipped his chair back slightly; rocking it with a self-satisfied air.

"Agent DiNozzo my client has told you everything he knows. He has said he has nothing further to add." The lawyer decided it was time to earn his fee.

"See that's the thing." The pleasantly puzzled expression highlighted the sarcastic taunt. "Your client didn't tell me Sgt. Roberts called his office the day before he showed up dead." Tony casually glanced at the lawyer. "In fact, your client didn't tell me Sgt. Roberts called his office – twice - the day before he showed up dead." - Holding up two fingers in illustration. "So I'm guessing your client _hasn't_ told me everything he knows."

Scott stopped rocking his chair and quickly disavowed knowledge. "If he called the campaign, I didn't speak to him." He shrugged. "Must be a coincidence."

"My boss doesn't believe in coincidences." Tony stared at Scott reflectively for a minute; trying to gauge the reaction. "Why would a man – you didn't know -" Tony's emphasis on that phrase was a sardonic veiled accusation of lying. "Who doesn't even live in D.C., call your campaign?"

"Perhaps it was related to my work on behalf of our Veterans?" The overly smooth veneer slipped back into place. "I strongly support their welfare." - Easily adopting his vote-for-me persona and proudly proclaiming his status and allegiance. "I'm veteran myself, with many close ties."

"Yeah?" Tony was deliberately disbelieving. "According to your fellow Marines, you couldn't wait to join the 1st CivDiv."

Scott bristled slightly at Tony's mocking. Once again the lawyer intervened. "Mr. Scott has admitted the possibility this man, Roberts, may have tried to contact him." - The tone becoming a little sharper. "He didn't speak with him." He patted Scott's arm reassuringly; adding firmly. "You'll have to speak with his staffers about the calls."

Shielded by the legal deflection, Scott began tipping the chair again. "Anyway, Agent DiNozzo, why is my service record even relevant?"

Tony leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "Because the guy who's holding my partner served with you; he also knew the guy whose corpse crushed your Azaleas." Tony cocked his head. "And I don't believe in coincidences either."

"You must be very worried." He looked at Tony with a sickening smile of sympathy. "Pity you're wasting time in here. You should probably be out looking for her." The false sincerity underlined the small jeer of criticism.

"Mr. Scott has another appointment." A change in Tony's manner at the mention of Ziva, prompted his lawyer to act again. "He has provided full assistance to your Agency in this investigation. I am recommending the interview be terminated - now."

"Right." Tony agreed curtly. He had no other choice; in the absence of any real evidence to hold him. As Scott smugly tipped his chair, Tony extended a leg. Preventing the downward swing and nudging the angle a little further back. The chair over-balanced completely; depositing Scott in a startled, sprawling heap on the floor. The push under the table wouldn't be recorded by the camera.

Tony stood, picking up his papers and jacket. "You should probably be more careful." - And left the room.

* * *

"Nothing?" Gibbs appeared from the adjacent room.

Tony was storming down the corridor. "Nothing an ear fuck with a cordless drill wouldn't solve."

He was fuming. The non-existent progress, harrowing concern for Ziva and Tony's inability to find her were building a perfect storm of frustration. Corroding control and distracting his thoughts. According to Tennyson's adage, 'tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. Tony didn't know who said it. Clearly whoever said it, was a first-class idiot in his opinion. Tony had tried it when she stayed in Israel – and it wasn't better. Now Tony was forced to confront losing Ziva for the second time. And, without the convenient cloak of extra complications, the idea of loving her was suddenly becoming sharply, painfully, defined.

"DiNozzo." Returned from his own interrogation, Gibbs had watched the final moments of the interview, smiling as Tony's trick sent the suspect tumbling. Nevertheless he was aware of the agent's currently tenuous grip on his temper – and that it wouldn't help if Tony lost it.

"What?" Tony snapped back furiously, half turning and banging the bottom of his clenched fist into the wall.

Gibbs walked over to him; tolerating the attitude and insolent reply so Tony could partially get it out of his system. He cast a scrutinizing look at Scott when their paths crossed.

"Talk to me." Standing in front of Tony; it was both a stern command and quiet invite which required Tony to focus and regain calm.

"It's him, Boss. I know it." His voice was a mix of appeal and conviction. "I know he's involved." Tony scowled; the burst of rage dissipating into a rationally angry assessment. "But the alibi's solid and there's just no other proof."

Gibbs nodded an affirmative – he knew it too. The two men had, individually, formed the identical inkling of Scott's connection to the case. Gibbs motioned upstairs with his head. "Check on the BOLOs, then go help Metro." Dispatching Tony out of the Navy Yard to physically participate in the search effort would supply an outlet for the caged tension. "I'm with Abby."

* * *

A substantial line of increasingly severe thunderstorms had been rolling across the city for the past couple of hours. The recent, tremendous, heat was breaking in a spectacular display of percussion and light. Torrential rain and swirling winds completed the complement of wild weather. It was certainly an apt decoration for the dirge playing in Abby's lab. and the mournful expression which greeted Gibbs.

"What'd ya got, Abbs?"

"Gibbs." The welcome accompanied by a small sniff. Abby didn't so much wear her heart on her sleeve as dress from head-to-toe in emotion. A photo of Ziva was stuck on each of her screens and Bert was in frequent danger of being crushed.

"This is totally the gun which killed Roberts; ballistics match." Abby pointed at the weapon on the table. "It was found in weeds beside a creek about half a mile from Scott's house." Abby had never met a thought she didn't express and her voice became delighted. "Isn't that just amazing? Think about it; some guy decides to go fishing and chooses that place and happens to see this gun." - The tangent on Chaos Theory served to perk up her mood. "And he doesn't ignore it or take it home or…."

"Abby." It was a gentle reminder to stay on topic.

"Right." She stopped, suitably abashed. "It's registered to a Ben MacIntyre."

"Good work." Gibbs looked highly satisfied until Abby spoke and this time her voice was depressed again.

"No it's bad." Abby shook her head. "I mean it's good that this is the smoking gun but they're the wrong smoke signals, Gibbs." She frowned at the gun in disgust at its treachery. "Ben MacIntyre was a member of Miller's platoon. And he was killed by a roadside bomb four years ago." The sniffing became more pronounced.

Gibbs hugged her and produced a De-Caf-Pow from behind his back. The amended drink provided the required distraction. "De-Caf?" Abby's lip didn't quite curl in distaste but her query conveyed displeasure.

"Pacing." Gibbs smiled reassuringly. "She's gonna be OK, Abbs."

* * *

McGee had been wedded to his computer all day. "Boss, we've had a hit on the BOLO." He began the latest update. "A volunteer at an outreach centre who knows Miller." - His voice becoming less keen with the final detail. "She saw him with Roberts the day before the murder."

Gibbs remained silent as he assimilated Abby's findings and McGee's news. "What else?"

It was Standard Operating Procedure for the team. If one avenue provided a negative, it was always best to be prepared with another lead.

"There's an anomaly in Scott's financial background." Additionally, McGee was a Boy Scout and so doubly prepared. "There's no real record of how his initial start was funded."

This information caught Gibbs' attention. "Go on."

"I mean, it's supposed to be an inheritance but I can't find the source." McGee, always cautious, continued. "I'm still checking accounts and it's fairly complicated but so far nothing." McGee stood and stretched, grateful for the excuse to move around. "He came back from Iraq, with a line in something called Iznik ceramics…."

Gibbs glanced at McGee "Pottery?" A little skepticism was evident.

McGee enlisted the plasma as his back-up advocate, flashing images of beautiful plates, vases and urns. The items decorated with fabulous geometric Islamic designs or birds and dragons - vivid cobalt, red and turquoise swirling across the objects. Stunning calligraphy, scrolling leaves and blossoms filled the screen.

"This stuff is valuable, Boss." - Pausing the slideshow on an ornate ivory and gold mirror and displaying the list price.

"Maybe worth killing for." Gibbs took the point. "Trace Scott's movements, calls and details for the day before and after the murder - everything." Gibbs was beginning to think he'd found Miller's reason. "I wanna know what he was doing, where he was for every second of that time."

The latest storm cell was directly over the city. As his boss spoke, the lights dimmed once, twice and then failed completely. In the pale glow of emergency lights, Gibbs and McGee stood staring at the lifeless monitor. McGee wouldn't be tracing anything until power was restored.

Eventually Tony returned to the Navy Yard – tired and very unhappy. D.C. was in the grip of a minor shutdown; flooding, roads blocked with fallen trees and downed lines. The emergency services had their hands full with the usual troubles resulting from bad storms. The journey back had been tortuous and Ziva was still missing. For the time being, their investigation was technologically deaf, dumb and blind. The only discoveries so far pointed to her captor. Miller knew - had been seen with - the victim very recently; and he knew the last registered owner of the murder weapon.

* * *

**A huge thank you to everyone if you've posted a review - it is very helpful to know what you think. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. If you can please post a review; tell me what you liked/disliked or what did or didn't work…**


	10. The Mirror Image

**A/N: ****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 10 – still switching for the POV. It was how I wrote these chapters originally – then when I checked it recently I wasn't convinced but wasn't about to rewrite it.**

**Same on this case + the usual for background details….**

* * *

"…_to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show _

_Virtue her feature, scorn her own image,"_

_William Shakespeare_

* * *

**July 2010**

Ziva had no intention of falling asleep. She had stayed awake for longer and under harsher conditions. However, an hour or so before dawn, she did succumb to stress and exhaustion. Her mind seeking a break from constant evaluation of the situation - against her will. For the most part she formulated possible escape methods. The likeliest chance would be if she could persuade Miller to free her from the pipe and release her arms. There was a favorable argument for such action – despite sweating in the heat it would not be an unreasonable claim that she needed to pee. Miller didn't seem the type to refuse that request – it would depend on how paranoid he was in acquiescing.

Ziva wondered a little about rescue and pondered any efforts which she could make to alert people to her location. She also thought about Tony and the discussion in the squad-room – before she found out firsthand what sort of person Miller was. They had been separated like squabbling children in the back of a car. The quarrel seemed so pointless now and Ziva was struck by the dispiriting notion that their arguments were usually inconsequential in substance. Part of the combustion was undoubtedly caused by the fuel of opposite personalities. Nevertheless, she conceded to herself, most of the trouble was the result of tension and emotion - all the unasked, unanswered questions which remained.

She awoke, with a start, to the smell of coffee and Miller's thoughtful stare. Ziva didn't need to see the expression on his face to know she must have been dreaming out-loud. Her clammy skin had little to do with the prematurely heavy heat of the day. The rapid pulse was a definite give-away.

"I made coffee." Miller didn't comment on whatever he had seen. "Want some?"

Ziva hoped her sense of waking before the nightmare became very bad, was accurate. "Yes, thank you." She wasn't a huge coffee drinker but tried to seem enthusiastic – giving the impression nothing was amiss. "Never mess with a Marine's coffee if you want to live."

Miller looked quizzically at the remark. "My boss has rules; and that one is…" She paused whilst recalling the order. "Number 23." - Smiling at him as she explained. "He was a Gunnery Sergeant before becoming an NCIS Agent."

During the night, Ziva had decided to alternate two approaches with her abductor. One possible connection would be through the Marine Corps; he had seemed interested in her service and perhaps Gibbs' previous life in the Corps. might be helpful in securing her release. She opted for omitting Gibbs' other skill for the Marines. The wisdom of informing her kidnapper one of the men looking for him was an expert sniper was questionable.

"Your partner ex-military too?" Miller had noticed a distinct quality in her manner whenever Ziva referenced Tony. The brisk, rational delivery softened slightly and she sometimes looked as though on the verge of a faint smile. This made Miller curious. Apparently no-one, not even criminals, were immune to their antics.

Ziva shook her head. "No, he was with Baltimore P.D."

Miller moved closer, bringing her coffee. Ziva fidgeted, implying real discomfort – the other angle. Bizarre as it might seem, her captor was concerned for her welfare – she could use that sympathy as a weapon against him. Ziva was exceedingly well-trained in the art of manipulating others. For the moment, whilst giving her a drink, Miller was oblivious to this approach. The coffee was dreadful and Ziva rejected all but a few sips. Miller was improvising admirably - experience gained in the field – without the necessary equipment to make the endeavor especially rewarding. Living rough had acclimatized him and he was unaware of the fault.

"Why are you holding me?" Ziva tried not to sound half-hearted in the repeated phrase – yet he hadn't given an answer earlier and there was no reason to believe he would this time.

The premonition proved correct. He retreated to his corner of their shelter without response; and restarted one of his private muttering sessions. Straining her ears, Ziva could only make out the occasional word – none of which helped in discovery of his possible motives. From her position she watched the skies slowly become overcast with heavy, ominous clouds. Although the disappearance of the sun made no difference to the temperature; the atmosphere was suffocating and oppressive. In the distance thunder could be heard and Ziva dispassionately concluded the building wouldn't be waterproof. She hoped it was structurally sound.

* * *

Hours dragged past whilst Ziva attempted – without success - to connect with Miller. At times, she battled to subdue her mounting annoyance with his lack of engagement. And she uttered a string of oaths when he allowed her privacy but not unrestricted movement for the bathroom break. The stunned look on his face when Ziva furiously launched into Hebrew would have been amusing under different circumstances. Surreptitiously she struggled to free herself – only aggravating the already irritated skin. Ziva noticed Miller was becoming more agitated and eventually realized the imminent storms were the source of his trouble. Each progressively louder rumble or brighter flash produced more muttering and jittery movements.

He suffered from a childish fear - just like she did. Hers was of the dark; her captor's fear was thunderstorms. Ziva was startled by the similarity and her anger gave way to empathy.

"What happened to your leg, Will?" - Suddenly choosing a line of questioning away from his actions as an aggressor; natural sympathy in her tone.

Miller seemed surprised by the sound of her voice; as though he'd forgotten Ziva. "Iraq." The one word answer was impassive but he jumped at the next loud crack.

Ziva already knew the background. "Yes but how? Were you on patrol?" Distracting him might ease his obvious distress and aid in the achievement of her goal.

"An I.E.D." He looked at Ziva. "We'd been fishing, Ben and me and…." Miller halted the tale. "When it happened…we wanted to get out and weren't paying attention."

Another very loud discharge sounded – very close – and he hunched up against the wall, shaking.

"Was that the mistake?" - Carefully avoiding any personalization of the issue; not his mistake, the mistake. Ziva was hesitant to mention the topic after the last reaction provoked by the word. She gambled Miller couldn't deteriorate much further and it at least they were communicating. Furthermore, direct was her natural state and, often worked.

He didn't say anything immediately but shot her a hunted look and began the two-way but one person style of talking again.

"After the fishing trip, there was a mistake?" Ziva prompted gently.

Miller laughed at her remark. "Fighting-In-Someone's-House. FISH-ing." He shook his head in amusement – the storm temporarily relinquishing its power over him. "We were in a hurry 'cause…."

Again he left the story unfinished but this time the inner turmoil didn't return. Instead he sat watching Ziva intently before commenting. "You're like me."

She frowned at the odd observation. "Because I was a soldier?"

"Something bad happened to you." Miller shrugged. "You have nightmares. I saw you." He expanded his theme. "You were scared last night. You're hurt too."

This was unexpected. In reality, Ziva shouldn't be caught off-guard because Miller had proven he was very observant. However, she had hoped the issue wouldn't become relevant.

"I was held by terrorists for a short period." Tony would instantly recognize her voice and manner. Practical, matter-of-fact and indicating she would supply no additional information.

Miller – not possessing Tony's ability - seemed disappointed in the lack of detail. "That it?'

Ziva nodded. "In a nutcase." She refused to elaborate further. And with no Tony around for a translation of the English error, Miller was left unenlightened and vaguely confused.

Ziva's assessment of the building's ability to withstand the weather had been partially correct. The torrential rain was pouring through numerous holes in the roof; cascading off broken debris, splashing into huge pools. Fortunately their corner was relatively dry and wind-proof. The first storm rolled along its path, away from the neighborhood – the next one could be heard approaching. There was a lull in the conversation. Ziva was trying to think of a new way to extract Miller's story. She was interested and, more importantly, she was certain the answer to her predicament lay with accessing Miller's past. There could be no doubt he was somewhat unbalanced but she was firmly convinced at this point he would not harm her – deliberately at least.

"Charles Scott was in your unit." Ziva opened with the little she knew of the current case details. "Did you know Sgt. Joe Roberts?"

Miller tensed at the mention of Roberts' name but he nodded. "In hospital. Did Scott kill him?"

She and McGee hadn't suggested such an outcome to Miller the previous day. "Why would he do that, Will?"

"Because I told him." Miller answered cryptically.

She was puzzled; briefly wondering if her assessment of him as not dangerous should be amended. "You told him to kill Roberts?" - Seeking clarification before categorizing him as an unpredictable adversary again.

"No." Miller sighed. "I told Joe about…Iraq. We were friends." There was authentic sadness reflected on his features; he was telling the truth.

Ziva pressed her advantage. "Tell me, Will." She smiled in encouragement. "Remember you believed holding me captive might help you." Not everyone would be willing to remind their abductor of wrong-doing. However, Ziva took a risk and employed logical honesty.

The next storm was rattling the area and Miller wearily surrendered. Very slowly, haltingly he solved the mystery for her. Sometimes rambling disjointedly and, at others, he ground to a complete standstill until nudged by Ziva. She kept interruptions minimal – only if absolutely necessary.

Scott had been a useless Marine, disliked by his fellow soldiers – who didn't trust him either professionally or privately. The precise details were unclear; somehow Scott became involved in the misappropriation – stealing by any other name – of artifacts and antiques. He viewed it as a reward for being stuck in a war and a chance to make easy money. One night, he asked Ben MacIntyre to accompany him on a buy in a dangerous part of the town. Ben agreed hoping to make some extra money to impress a girl back home. As MacIntyre's friend, Miller went too – although he was not a participant in the overall scheme.

The two friends had waited outside the house. Gunfire erupted and after rushing in they discovered the deal had gone awry. More importantly, Scott appeared to have killed his smuggling contact and, in the crossfire, gunned down two children. Chaos and panic reigned in the bid to escape before deciding what they should do in terms of reporting and explaining the incident. Their vehicle had struck the explosive. MacIntyre was killed outright and Miller had lain trapped by his leg whilst a firefight raged around him – bequeathing him the fear of loud noise and bright light. Shattered both mentally and physically he dropped off the grid. Roberts kept tabs on him as best he could; tracking down Miller through outreach centers whenever he was in D.C.

On this last visit, Scott's run for office cropped up as a topic. Miller confessed the events to Roberts – who was angry with what he perceived as Scott's abuse of his war record for an electioneering gimmick. He considered it a slur on the Corps. and an insult to Veterans. Roberts arranged a meeting with Scott and planned a confrontation. He would expose Scott's crimes unless he withdrew from the election. Miller, worried about Roberts, gave him a gun. When he didn't hear from Roberts after the appointed hour, Miller knew something was wrong. The arrival of the NCIS agents created further alarm and he kidnapped Ziva in unreasoned panic.

When he finished the story, Miller glanced at Ziva. "It was wrong. We were wrong." He twitched as more thunder crashed overhead. "None of it should've happened." He looked lost and broken. "And it should be fixed."

Ziva remained quietly considering the possibilities. She was haunted by two realizations. Miller was like Tony in trying to take responsibility for the actions of others. Attempting to correct errors that were not of his making and carrying guilt he didn't deserve. The second thought was even more upsetting; Miller was right. In a way, he was a mirror image; she was like him. It was distressing to watch him flinch in fear, agitated or muttering – bedeviled by his past. And the recognition she would have appeared exactly the same way in Paris – that Tony would have witnessed her battle – was truly heart-breaking.

She returned her immediate attention to Miller. "You should contact my boss."

Miller stiffened, viewing her with renewed suspicion and guarded once more. "No."

The sky was darkening as night crept nearer and the lightning flashes were more visible now. Sirens were wailing in the distance as Ziva took a deep breath.

"Gibbs will help you fix it, Will." She was preparing for a long, dark night of persuasion. "If you release me, he can help you. He is a former Marine."

* * *

**A huge thank you to if you've posted a review – they're helpful and appreciated. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. If you can please post a review; tell me what you liked, what you didn't or that you're bored…**


	11. Never Smooth

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 11 – OK, switching is done pretty much - still with me? **

**Again with this case and background details….**

* * *

"_The course of true love never did run smooth;"_

_William Shakespeare_

* * *

**July 2010**

Life support returned to the Navy Yard at about four o'clock the next morning. And McGee's redemption, for the loss of Ziva, took corporeal form approximately forty minutes later. Once power was restored he had begun a blizzard of triangulating, tracking and tracing – not paying too much attention to the lines quarantining legal, iffy and definitely illegal. His computer and technical expertise was formidable and it was backed by an equal intelligence. The first targets were 'phone records, traffic cams and other means of monitoring movement.

"Bo-oss?" - Pushing his chair back, standing up and barely able to contain the note of elation. "I think I've got something." Rapidly pressing some buttons on his keyboard, transmitting the information to the plasma before hustling over to Gibb.

"Elizabeth Scott's car was here." He marked the point on the displayed map. "At 11:01 the night Roberts was killed." McGee highlighted another position. "Roberts' body was found here, it's about a twenty minute drive." He made the last circle with a flourish. "And the gun was found here."

"The wife?" Gibbs looked at the pattern of red dots. "How do we know?"

"Toll tag." McGee proclaimed triumphantly. "There are three records but no corresponding one for the second outbound leg. She must have taken the alternate route when she left the party or…." His inspiration faded since McGee was unable to think of another conclusion for the anomaly. "But this is time and date-stamped, Boss. Her car was there and we can prove it."

Tony had quickly joined McGee when he announced the break. "Scott said they took his wife's car to the party." He mentally calculated directions, distances and timing. "She must've been on her way back when this was recorded."

"Good work, Tim. Get me a copy." The nod at McGee was high praise in the Gibbs method of communication. "DiNozzo, I want to talk to her – now."

Tony and McGee took up station in observation whilst Mrs. Scott and her lawyer awaited the arrival of Gibbs. She was elegantly, though casually, dressed and seemed serene. Her lawyer, a different one to that of her husband, seemed not quite awake. Less of a legal eagle: more of a sleepy penguin.

His own lack of sleep notwithstanding, Gibbs marched into the room with his usual alert business-like stride. The man never appeared weary. Privately, his team speculated the Marines had fitted Gibbs with a device similar to a car's alternator. It constantly re-charged provided he didn't switch off and the fuel supply – coffee – was maintained.

Dropping a folder onto the table, cup in hand, as he pulled out a chair.

"Special Agent Gibbs, my client has co-operated fully with this investigation." Mr. Hall, the lawyer, began in an irritated whine. "I must protest this interview, conducted at such a preposterous hour…"

He didn't get to finish. "You're concerned about time? Probationary Agent Ziva David has been missing for over thirty-six hours." Gibbs interrupted in a measured, restrained tone.

In the observation room, Tony flinched slightly.

"During those hours your client has been lying to me." Gibbs made the course of the session apparent in one brusque sentence.

The lawyer glanced at Elizabeth Scott, who remained unmoved. "Lying about what exactly?" Hall asked.

Gibbs took a sip of his coffee. "Who she was with on the night Sgt. Roberts was murdered." He took out the crime scene photos – selecting a particularly gruesome - and laid it in the middle of the table.

He was acting on a hunch and waited to see what reaction his words would provoke. Mr. Hall began fiddling with the catches on his brief-case.

"Mrs. Scott has previously answered that inquiry." There was a snap as the locks flipped open. "She was at a social function, with her husband – fifty people can attest to her attendance." He held out a typed document to Gibbs. "It's in her affidavit." There was a note of sharp smugness in the remark.

McGee hissed in anticipation as his boss' target unknowingly moved into the cross-hairs.

Gibbs refused the paper offering with a half smile, indicating his folder. "I have a copy, right here." He ignored the lawyer and fixed his eyes on Mrs. Scott. "Fifty? I'm only interested in one."

Initially, Elizabeth Scott made the mistake of trying to meet the flinty glare before her eyes dropped and she fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair; her tranquility slipping.

"Who were you with?" Gibbs asked again, very quietly; producing McGee's print-out of the toll tag data and sliding it across the table. "Because your car wasn't at the party the whole time."

Hall snatched the paper and began reading it, dawning comprehension visible on his face. Gibbs directed another comment towards the woman. "Either you or your husband were driving, on that road, at that time."

"We went to the party." She spoke for the first time; a plain reiteration of facts, almost like the words were rehearsed. "Charles and I arrived together at around 7:45. We left…."

Gibbs slammed his palm down on the table, making everyone – including Tony and McGee - jump. He leaned forward, his voice deadly quiet but clearly very angry. "My agent is missing, a Marine Sgt. is dead and your husband is involved." - Pinning her with another fierce stare. "Who were you with?"

"He said he didn't kill him, he asked me to say we were together…" Tears began welling in Elizabeth Scott's eyes and her lawyer whispered something in her ear. She was twisting her bracelets and she grasped the lawyer's arm when she made her reply. At first, Mr. Hall objected, shaking his head at whatever suggestion had been made. After a further hushed conference, he looked apprehensively across the table.

"Special Agent Gibbs, my client wishes to amend her statement." His smile was very conciliatory. "If her testimony proves useful in solving these crimes, I trust we can come to some suitable arrangement?"

Gibbs shrugged. His expression could have read as yes, no or maybe; depending on one's viewpoint. And indicated Elizabeth Scott should have started talking yesterday.

Gibbs - plus Tony and McGee – listened as the story unfolded. The only truth in the original account was the joint arrival and time. Separating, ostensibly to mingle and be sociable, Mrs. Scott had spent most of the time - secluded in another part of the property. She was in the company of her boyfriend, and as far away as possible from Charles Scott. For a large part of the evening, and certainly the crucial period, Elizabeth Scott had no clue of her husband's whereabouts; she didn't know and didn't care. When the body of Sgt. Roberts turned up on their property, her husband had acted as though genuinely shocked. He had persuaded her they would provide an alibi for each other; damaging publicity from any hint of scandal might jeopardize his election prospects. Worried her illicit affair would come to light – there was a pre-nup. contract in play – she had agreed. Unable to believe her husband a murderer – he just wasn't much fun in bed – she saw no harm in the ploy.

Impassively, Gibbs handed Elizabeth Scott a note pad and Hall gave her the pen. "The man's name and where he can be reached." Once in possession of the information, Gibbs left them without another word.

Tony and McGee bolted out of the observation room to catch up with Gibbs.

"Made another one cry, Boss." Tony grinned. "In under twenty minutes; nice going."

Questioning by Gibbs was a sort of spectator sport for the team. They kept an unofficial on-going tally of length, reactions, tactics and results. Although there was more than a trace of gallows humor to Tony's remark. The case against Scott had advanced but was still rather weak. More importantly, it seemed unlikely he would know where Ziva was being held.

"It's pretty thin." McGee stated the obvious as the group reached the squad-room.

"It's a start." Gibbs' gut had proved correct again. He had guessed at the infidelity in his earlier chat with the wife. And his instincts were telling him they would be able to close the case. "DiNozzo; pick him up; then check out the boyfriend." Gibbs handed Tony the details. "McGee; dig up everything you can on Scott."

Gibbs was going to focus on locating Ziva.

Shortly after Tony disappeared, Gibbs' cell rang. "Gibbs." Not happy at the interruption to the search for Ziva, his answer was even more of a growl than usual – before his voice suddenly altered. "Lieutenant Miller?" – Having established the caller's identity for McGee, Gibbs calmly asked "Where's Ziva?" – Sounding no different than if he were inquiring about the weather.

The junior agent's head had snapped up at the mention of the name and he responded immediately to Gibbs' signal to initiate tracking. Gibbs was scribbling on a piece of paper and within seconds the call was terminated.

"Boss, I'm sorry." McGee's voice reflected his disappointment. "It just wasn't long enough for..."

"Yes it was McGee." Gibbs' remark was one of relief as he held up the slip of paper. "Miller's gonna meet me."

* * *

Tony rarely reveled in the full might of his considerable, Federally-sanctioned authority. Arrests were made in a variety of circumstances; people who had been stupid, or, perhaps, acted rashly or simply made a mistake. Sometimes someone who had done the wrong thing for the right reasons or, occasionally there was genuine tragedy. Nevertheless, there were also times when a definite sense of satisfaction could be derived from the process – and this was one such occasion. Ziva was still missing and Charles Scott was the recipient of all Tony's frustrated worry.

The hopeful candidate had been less than pleased by his wife's summons to the Navy Yard at the crack of dawn. He was downright disturbed to find Tony in the hotel foyer as he emerged from his breakfast campaign meeting. Casually draped against the desk, flirting with the receptionist; the only words to describe Tony's attitude were absolute arrogance. Scott had hired bodyguards when the discovery and location of Roberts' body became known. Cynically utilizing the politicians' creed that no crisis should ever be wasted; the inference would be that he was, perhaps, threatened and public sympathy could be manipulated by the drama. When Tony started walking toward Scott, one of these men – ignorant of his identity - placed a warning hand on his shoulder.

"Oh get your fucking hand off me." - Tony, utterly contemptuous, shook free. "Or face charges for assaulting a Federal Agent and obstruction of justice."

Realizing his mistake, the lackey backed away - quickly darting a baffled glance at his employer.

"Charles Scott; you're under arrest for the murder of Sgt. Joseph Roberts." Tony might have sounded like he was introducing a lottery winner, the handcuffs dangled tauntingly from his thumb left no doubt the charge was serious.

Scott didn't even look nervous. He had an excellent legal team and trial by jury was similar to spinning a roulette wheel - acquittal was always a possibility. Mindful of image and perceptions, he smiled appealingly at Tony. "Since I'm certain this is some type of terrible error, Special Agent DiNozzo, how about we dispense with the cuffs?"

Tony grinned pleasantly. "Let me think." - Pausing for a moment as if really considering the request - "How 'bout no?" – Coolly sarcastic as he walked around Scott, he continued with quiet menace; "Now put your hands behind your back."

There was a small gathering of press outside, eagerly awaiting the latest pre-trail sound-bite. Tony had been aware of the situation when he entered the hotel. He had every hope this 'perp. walk' would hit full spectrum Media coverage and result in the ruination of Scott's reputation.

* * *

By contrast, the arrest of former Lieutenant Will Miller couldn't have been more kindly. Ziva's patient efforts at persuading Miller he should surrender to Gibbs had finally paid off. He had called and given the address. They arrived with silent speed - no sirens and Gibbs instructed the LEOs and EMS personnel to stay back whilst he and McGee made their way into the maze of abandoned warehouses. There Miller was waiting for them; edgy and skittish.

"McGee." Ziva shook her head. "Those will not be necessary." She commented calmly as he produced his hand-cuffs.

Ziva was still sat bound; releasing her hadn't occurred to Miller. Gibbs held out his hand for the key and Miller mutely complied – rummaging through his pockets as if he'd just remembered something important. McGee wondered if Ziva would unleash an assault on her captor the minute she was free. He glanced at Gibbs for confirmation of her instruction; who nodded.

"Take him outside to the car, McGee." – Quietly; bending down to unfasten Ziva.

McGee led Miller away by the arm. Ziva stood with Gibbs' help; she was stiff and unsteady from being confined for so many hours. And despite her rational acceptance there would be a sensible reason, she was a little disappointed and puzzled by Tony's absence from the scene.

"Are you hurt?" - Asking as he checked her over anyway.

She rubbed her wrists, leaning back against the pipe for support while her body adjusted to a new pose. "No, Gibbs, he did not hurt me." She shook her head. "He is more disturbed than dangerous."

Ziva looked at him; the two former soldiers shared a moment of understanding and sympathy for the plight of a comrade.

One of his rare, brilliant full smiles creased Gibbs' face and he lightly kissed her forehead. "Ready?" Then, eternally practical, he handed her a bottle of water.

* * *

For the second time within the space of forty-eight hours, Tony received an urgent call from McGee. He was on his way back to the Navy Yard, with Scott, and he diverted to the site. Technically a total violation of protocol; Tony didn't care. There would be more than enough cops around for security; his prisoner wasn't going anywhere. McGee had said she was unharmed – Tony was compelled to see for himself and he wasn't prepared to wait. His arrival coincided with that of McGee and Miller at the car. Tony was anxiously scanning the vicinity for Ziva.

"Where is she?" - Walking closer to them.

He immediately caught Miller's attention. "You're her partner?" It was more of a statement of fact than a question.

Tony nodded absent-mindedly; not especially interested in Miller. He turned - for clarification – to McGee who had waved his hand in the general direction of the derelict buildings.

Miller tapped Tony. "She's hurt." A weird urgency took possession of the man's demeanor.

That was the terminal point of overextension for Tony's tolerance. "You sick son-of-a-bitch." Spitting out the accusation, he grabbed Miller's shirt front and pushed him, hard, against the car. "What did you do to her?"

McGee was momentarily stunned by the attack. Panic filled Miller's eyes and he clutched ineffectually at Tony's arm. "Like me." He gasped in explanation. "Hurt, she's hurt."

Confusion became anger's successor and Tony's grip relaxed; he frowned at Ziva's kidnapper. The lieutenant's head turned to the side. Tony swiveled, following the shifted focus of Miller's gaze; and saw Ziva standing a short distance from them.

She was tired, dehydrated, and her face was grubby. Nevertheless, she was right in front of him with her enchanting, perfect poise. One eyebrow quizzically raised in inquiry as to why Tony's arm was shoved into Miller's throat. An enigmatic smile twitched the corners of her mouth. Their eyes locked. Tony would swear his heart temporarily stopped beating. And Ziva discovered breathing was more difficult than she remembered. He looked drained and stressed. Yet the assurance, effortless charm and the intriguing expression in his eyes were all present. The look exchanged between them felt as though it lasted æons. McGee busied himself by loading Miller into the car once Tony's hand fell away completely.

Finally Tony spoke, grinning. "Least we didn't have to go to the Big Fucking Empty to get you this time."

"Then what took you so long?" - Ziva's smile widened in response.

"DiNozzo." Gibbs appeared behind Ziva, demanding Tony's presence.

"Boss." Tony acknowledged the command.

They walked toward each other; Ziva going to the car and Tony in the opposite direction. When they drew level, there was a brief, unrehearsed pause in motion. Not quite facing each other, Tony barely stretched out one hand – and gently ran his middle finger-tip down the inside of Ziva's reddened wrist.

"You OK?" – Looking down at her with searching concern.

"Yes, thank you." For a fraction of a second, Ziva's fingers instinctively curled around Tony's. "I am fine."

McGee awkwardly averted his eyes in sudden recognition he'd just witnessed an extraordinary reunion. Unlike the one in Africa, there was no shock or desperate tension from a perilous situation. This one was straightforward; infused with an entirely different sense. The intense look, casual words and fleeting caress were external symbols of profound feeling. Public domain and their own crazy conduct of the relationship dictated the limitations. Those restrictions, however, didn't detract from the strength of the emotions. McGee sighed; really he should be used to it by now. It was both exhausting and fascinating trying to comprehend the insanity.

* * *

"Plenty of fluids, in addition to an early night." Ducky completed his examination of Ziva. "And you'll be as right as rain tomorrow, my dear."

This was one of Ducky's great joys; his rôle as de facto family physician. Naturally, in serious matters he let the professionals do their job – although he closely monitored their handiwork. However, for minor ailments and injuries he fussed over the team in a sweetly avuncular fashion. It provided a very welcome change from the perpetual parade of death and decomposition.

"Home." He smilingly cupped her face; his eyes twinkling. "I prescribe a large glass of wine and a long relaxing bath."

Tony was sat at his desk. Both hugely relieved at Ziva's return and wrestling resentment at the fact everyone was allowed touch her – everyone except Tony. Ducky's gesture simply the last in a highly annoying series. No doubt Gibbs would have kissed her. McGee – understandably thrilled she wasn't hurt - had actually stood with his arm around her for a couple of minutes. Abby had administered a hug - the force of which would have been life-threatening to anyone with a hint of brittle bone disease. Palmer had gingerly patted her back. Even Vance had squeezed Ziva's shoulder.

In part, it was a subconscious mutual embargo – imposed since day one – in resistance to the chemistry. With the passage of time, as basic attraction became enhanced by emotion, hugs and other contact advanced to carefully calibrated maneuvers. They always involved a neutral body part; never too long, neither too tight nor too affectionate. Intermittently, one of them would break, usually a consequence of some momentous event – like today. The touch would always be ephemeral; almost as if prolonged contact would result in burns. Additionally, the notion of promoting the wrong impression entered the picture. Tony and Ziva became aware of how such behavior might be misinterpreted – or, outside of their blinkered view, accurately interpreted – by their colleagues.

"I'll take you." Gibbs stood beside her as she prepared to leave.

It wasn't an offer, it was a gruff decree. Like McGee, Gibbs had observed Tony and Ziva at Miller's hideout. Absence might well make the heart grow fonder; it might also disrupt his team. Gibbs had no intention of allowing any distilled emotions to boil over because Tony and Ziva found themselves alone together under conducive conditions.

Tony had been thinking of floating the idea he assume the part of chauffeur. "So tell us, Zee-vah," - Covering the thwarted ambition. "How exactly _did_ a one-legged man get the drop on you?"

Ziva tilted her head, recognizing the tone of his voice. He mightn't be permitted to touch her; but no-one could tease her like Tony.

"He has two legs, Tony." - Ziva corrected drily; refusing to be irked was part of the game. "I underestimated him." – Knowing the honest admission wouldn't divert Tony's aim.

Ziva was also experiencing twin states; moved by Gibbs' thoughtfulness in driving her and vaguely vexed with her boss because his action meant Tony wouldn't take her home.

"Well, yeah you did, we all know that." Tony leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "But how'd Miller do it?" – Gleefully curious in trying to provoke the reaction. "I mean, c'mon Zee-vah, this stuff could save lives." The grin was infectious. "It should go in the Agency Disaster-Preparedness Manual; precautions in the event of an angry Ninja."

Ziva placed her hands on his desk, leaning across it. "Would you like me to show you?" Her smile and inflexion were an equally teasing query. "I could demonstrate on you Tony." – Ziva's playful threat tinged with the merest hint of a suggestive purr.

The encounter was entering the exclusive zone; as though they were the only two people in the room. Their gaze focused solely on each other.

Gibbs took her elbow. "Home." - Firmly breaking the connection and instantly killing the mood. Moreover, their boss resolved to keep Tony occupied with finishing up the Scott case; for the rest of the day and a very significant proportion of the night.

* * *

**Thanks if you've taken the time to review. It is very helpful. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. If you can please post a review; tell me if it's still working, that I've lost the plot or whatever you think…**


	12. Death and the Ninja

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 12 – lots of lovely drama for this one – all necessary if you'll forgive me.**

**This is the only chapter where the title & the quote aren't directly connected. The heading is a bastardization of the title of a play – Death and the Maiden [Ariel Dorfman]. It seems appropriate in some ways for Ziva. Couldn't remember a quote I liked from it - to match this part of the tale… So the quote is Jean-Luc Goddard - which did seem to fit.**

**Again with the cases and background details….**

* * *

"_All you need for a movie is a gun and a girl."_

_Jean-Luc Godard_

* * *

**September 2010**

"Any banjoes strike up, McCityBoy and I'm either John Voight or Burt Reynolds." Tony grinned at McGee. "I advise against being Ned Beatty."

They were slowly picking their way through the out-buildings of an abandoned property – located in the middle of nowhere.

"Actually, Tony," McGee piped back good-humoredly "if any hillbillies attack, we should make a run for it and leave them Ziva."

Mopping up last connections to the Reynosa Cartel, they had followed a tip. Gibbs wanted the entire outfit behind bars if possible. Typically, not for his own personal protection or reputation; making peace with his conscience a long time ago. Justice had been done – according to Gibbs' unique set of principles anyway. However, as with all such organizations, removing the head didn't necessarily mean death. He was determined no splinter groups would spring up on American soil. The opportunity to take advantage of the ensuing power vacuum would not occur on his watch. The Task Force had their hands full south of the border – Gibbs applied Rule #45 to the aftermath of the case.

"Good point, McGee." Tony nodded in appreciation of the plan. "Hey, Zee-vah?"

She was checking the exterior; working her way around to the other side. "If the Strange-Country-People show up," giving a reasonable impression of a rural drawl. "McGee & I are gonna let you handle them."

"Fine, Tony." She called back. Not having the slightest idea to what he was referring; Ziva reacted with agreeable indifference as opposed to falling into the trap.

Judging from what little evidence the team had discovered so far, someone had been living on the property – fairly recently. Although, it was obvious the residents were not planning a return. And it was difficult to assess for what purpose the alleged 'safe-house' had actually been used.

"She doesn't have the car keys, does she?" Tony wrinkled his brow in fake concern.

McGee shook his head. "Ta-da" – and produced the keys with a flourish.

There was good reason for the aimless, jokey back-and-forth banter. The house had been thoroughly searched upon their arrival. Now they had completed a sweep of all other structures and, basically, come up empty. It appeared the MCRT's journey was in vain. Their destination was too close for flying but sufficiently far to result in an interminably long car journey. An overnight stay loomed ahead of them. Federal budgets, not being known for their generosity in relation to such expenses, dictated the hotel was not exactly luxurious. Basic was more like it; scoring an upgrade was out of the question. Tony had a long-standing feud with Fred-in-Accounting; in Tony's estimation a bean-counter of the worst variety. He regularly returned Tony's submissions for amendment. And Tony regularly suggested the obsession with exactitude was the result of a non-existent sex-life.

They completed their examination of the storage barn.

"OK, let's collect what we found at la casa principal." Tony's use of Spanish was an ironic expression of frustration at the fruitless errand. "Head out, maybe talk to the locals." Inevitable tedium was the order for the rest of the afternoon. Even McGee's normally buoyant temperament was deflated by the prospect – he sighed in agreement.

Outside a generator coughed into life - set on some sort of automated system. And four gunshots rang out in rapid succession; Ziva's ballistic signature.

* * *

They pulled weapons and ran in the direction from which the shots had come. "Zee-vah?"

Tony assumed Ziva had fired. Mostly because he didn't want to admit the ramifications of those four shots, if she hadn't. There was no answer.

Rounding a corner, Tony and McGee could see Ziva standing several feet from the generator. Relief she was unharmed instantly converting to alarm as they drew closer. Something was very wrong. At the sound of their arrival, Ziva – startled - had spun around. Tony skidded to an abrupt halt in front of her- about ten feet away - his feet slithering on the loose stones and gravel chips. McGee, prompted by Tony's arrested progress, stopped even further back. His stomach lurching as he realized the reason for Tony's aborted approach. Ziva's gun was still raised. And, judging by the groaning clank emanating from the diesel-powered machine, she had just mortally wounded a generator.

Tony immediately holstered his firearm and held up his hands – out, away from his body. McGee was aghast – barely daring to move as he lowered his own gun. From his vantage point, he could tell Ziva was aware of their presence. However, although she was looking at Tony, she wasn't seeing him. A reality made evident by the weapon aimed directly at his chest. She was squinting as the bright afternoon light shone in her eyes. However, it was clear the position of the sun had little to with the situation. Ziva had a dazed, distant look on her face. Worse, her hands were shaking. Ziva's hands never shook. McGee could see her finger on the trigger.

Impossible to discern from his outward appearance, Tony was panic-stricken by the turn of events. Rapidly thinking of a way to reach Ziva - whilst cognizant of the fact she perceived him as some type of threat. Only too well acquainted with how proficient Ziva could be, once the lethal system was tripped and accessed, Tony didn't want to provoke any instinctive self-defense. They had heard four shots – there were four rounds left. Milliseconds stretched agonizingly whilst the impasse continued to the accompaniment of grinding metallic death throes.

Then McGee watched Tony start walking toward Ziva. In dry-mouthed amazement; he couldn't decide if it was courage, reckless disregard or abject stupidity. Always one to think the best of people, wherever possible, McGee nominated bravery. Braver than Kate choosing to remain with Tony whilst he was sick – she had a medical team for support. Braver than his own choice of remaining in the women's prison – he had Gibbs' support. All Tony had was unshakeable faith in his connection with Ziva – blind belief she wouldn't actually open fire.

Keeping his hands where Ziva could see them, making no sudden movements, Tony swiftly narrowed the distance. Trying to capture Ziva's gaze, to focus her attention on him – in the hope she would 'stand down' if recognition kicked in. With absolutely no clear substitute plan as to what he – or she – would do if it didn't. When he was a couple of feet away, Ziva blinked, losing the glassy-eyed expression. Now McGee witnessed the extent of Tony's tension; illustrated because his shoulders visibly relaxed a little. Drawing level, Tony gently pushed the barrel of the gun down – pointing it in a safe direction.

"Hey Ninja," his voice was calm, supremely casual. "What's with the eco-rage?"

McGee was doubly-impressed by Tony's collected self-confidence. Ziva looked up at him, with a puzzled frown. "I heard a noise."

Tony returned the look, smiling with a convincing reassurance he certainly didn't feel. "OK." Calling over his shoulder, in the same low-key tone, "Tim, find the fucking kill switch." Inclining his head in the direction of the generator, Tony's eyes never left Ziva's.

"Did you see anything?" Tony carefully pried Ziva's fingers from the weapon's grip.

Walking past them, McGee observed - with a sense of unease - Tony apply the safety and tuck the gun into his waistband. Essentially, Tony had disarmed Ziva which indicated Tony was very worried. Strangely Ziva didn't protest the action. Her mute compliance as disturbing as Tony's confiscation of her Sig. McGee was happy for the distraction of putting the machine out of its misery.

"I heard a noise and…" Ziva glanced in McGee's direction.

Evolving from a blend of personal immunity and general decency, McGee had perfected a very convincing air of angelic oblivion. Not for the first time, their co-worker nobly pretended he couldn't hear a word Tony and Ziva were saying to each other.

She pressed the heel of one hand to her forehead. "I heard a noise." There was an edge of desperation to her voice; seeming almost on the verge of tears.

Tony noticed Ziva's explanation stalling, repeatedly, over the same phrase. He thought for a few minutes – absorbing the glaring conclusion. Ziva never missed. If she had tapped an inanimate object four times, undoubtedly that had been her intended target.

"But you didn't see anything, anyone?" An audit of Ziva's perceptions: was it a conscious act or a weird reflex.

He shot a grateful look of appreciation – over the top of Ziva's head – as McGee displayed his initiative. The junior agent conducted a quick survey of the surrounding area and shrubbery; discreetly signaling a negative. Tony's cool questioning was also a necessary charade. Ziva had discharged her weapon, triggering a routine review. Tony was covering their collective professional asses. At the same time attempting to figure out exactly what her actions meant. The only definite; it was unlikely there was anything remotely routine to that aspect.

Ziva shook her head. "No." She turned from him, taking a few steps away – composure reasserting itself with flexed fingers and measured breathing.

"How many shots did you get off?" Tony maintained the rational neutrality, quietly forcing her to think.

"Three…I think…perhaps four..." Another rattling revelation, Ziva was usually so assured around guns. Her situational awareness such Tony would swear, in firefights, she would be able to account for everyone's bullets – including those of the bad guys - right down to the sequence.

"Three or four, Zee-vah, which is it?" He was establishing the fundamentals. However, the gentle insistence of Tony's prodding was designed to gauge her state of mind.

She turned to face him, bristling at the implication. "Four, Tony." There was a hint of defensive irritation in Ziva's voice. "I fired four."

Totally unperturbed by the sudden shift in her manner; in a way, it fell bang in the middle of her bell curve. He viewed it as a welcome development. "I heard four." Tony scrutinized her reaction. "McGee?"

McGee was distinctly relieved at the re-appearance of Ziva's spark. Squabbling was infinitely preferable to the previous minutes of stunned anxiety. "Four."

* * *

There was nothing to be gained by lingering. Superficially, at least, the team resumed the original purpose of their road-trip – Tony even returned Ziva's gun. Crisscrossing the vicinity, canvassing people; they received answers which added little to the investigation. Tony paid scant attention to any of the interviews, barely participating. Excusing his abstraction by an irritating claim to the rights of seniority; he was exempt from 'Probie' duty. In reality, he wanted time to process - try to figure out the problem.

Baffling Tony were the two questions; why here and why now. Undoubtedly, after her rescue from Saleem's camp, Ziva exhibited some signs of after-effects - surprisingly mild in level. Tony watched as she stoically submitted to a barrage of counseling and Psych. Evaluations. All conducted by well-trained, well-meaning personnel. And all utterly useless: none of them capable of comprehending the conundrum of Ziva. Her answers were correct because she knew the questions – faultlessly meeting the standard criteria with regard to her progress. She was cleared. An outcome which suited Ziva – she preferred to cope alone. The close-knit team subtly supplied the greatest assistance in her recovery. It was fair to say, with the passage of time, Ziva had re-integrated exceedingly well.

There were no repercussions from kidnap-by-Miller; defying expectations once more, she seemed singularly unruffled. So much so, Vance had, virtually immediately, sent her to Florida – not a move of which Tony approved. Nevertheless, there had been nothing untoward in recent months. Yet today, a worrying reminder of the stresses Ziva had undergone, struck inexplicably. Based on the experience in Paris, the last thing needed was for Ziva to spend a night alone in a hotel room. The prospect of sneaking around trying to be with her or having to justify such activity to McGee wasn't feasible – especially since Ziva's mood pointed to an absolute lack of co-operation.

"Since we're done, why don't we ditch the hospitality of the wilderness and drive back tonight?"

They were standing by the car, in the gathering gloom of nightfall, discussing the failed nature of the visit. During the meal at a diner, Tony had finished formulating his primary course of action – get back to D.C. as soon as possible.

"Works for me, Tony." McGee cheerfully agreed. "There's three of us to split the driving." Discerning Tony's goal, he contributed his own brand of encouragement.

McGee would have hitched a ride back by horse and cart if necessary. Anything to end the surreal drama playing out in front of him; the fragile veneer of normality coated the distinctly abnormal atmosphere. They weren't incubating an argument – this was something else. He was accustomed to feeling, on occasion, like the third wheel. Today felt like that wheel was strapped to a vehicle careening wildly toward an undetermined fate. Ziva was giving every indication of avoiding Tony; Tony was giving every indication of not letting Ziva out of his sight. And McGee hadn't even begun to fit Ziva's meltdown into the equation. Moreover, he sensed – with natural tact - whatever scenario would unfold, should be a moment for the two of them. An intensely personal exchange: where the illusion of his non-presence would not suffice. McGee would like nothing better than to afford Tony and Ziva that privacy – for their benefit in addition to his own.

One on board: "What'd you reckon, Zee-vah?" Tony grinned, dangling the car-keys in front of her face. "Think you can get us back to D.C. in time for breakfast?"

It was a clever move. Internally, Ziva was terrified by her behavior. Her formidable self-discipline had emphatically deserted her - unexpectedly and dangerously. The oasis of home was a most welcome idea. However, she was certain Tony's alteration of the schedule was a marked response to the occurrence. To preserve the fiction of her well-being, she should object; fight his assumption. Offering to let her drive placed her in check by posing a challenge.

"What time would you like your eggs Tony?" Sapped of reserves - overwhelmed by the mental struggle - she snatched the keys from his hand with a weak smile.

* * *

The team did, indeed, reach D.C. for an early breakfast. The driving tackled in shifts. Whichever one was stretched out in the back seat managed no more than light dozing. Briefly dividing to dump belongings, change clothes; prepare for the start of another day. A synchronized unit; each completed a satisfactory incident report without collusion – omitting any mention of the most salient details. Their temporary absence from H.Q. meant the day was filled with catch-up and busy attendance. However, Gibbs demonstrated one of the many reasons he was an excellent boss – extending mercy to his weary, subdued team. Dismissing them slightly ahead of official time, they bolted with the zeal of children sent home early on a snow day.

"I'll call you later?" Tony's suggestion - in the elevator - was a warning he wouldn't let the matter drop.

"It will have to be later," Ziva's acquiescence was confirmation the line in the sand was visible. "I did not run this morning."

With no answer to his intermittent calls, Tony tracked Ziva down via a process of elimination – based on a hunch. He found her in one of the parks across the river; sitting on a low stone wall, staring out over the water.

"I'm gonna start billing for hours spent looking for you."

Tony had stood watching her for a short while, waiting to see if she would say anything. It was obvious Ziva had detected his appearance. He broke the silence with wry charm, sitting down beside her – facing the bike track and trees.

"I was not lost, Tony." Ziva glanced at him, briefly, before her eyes returned to somewhere in the middle distance.

Tony cocked his head. Surveying the pale, forlorn figure, hugging her knees; his rueful smiled suggested Ziva's reply could form the basis of an interesting philosophical debate – based on her present mood. Turmoil drove her to seek refuge in the functional. Ziva would, perhaps, visit the range or engage in extra physical exertion. Compensation, buffering against the insecurity, took the form of pushing herself with the familiar – relying on the concrete; the tangible. Tony had correctly guessed the declared intent to jog was a manifestation of her coping mechanism.

He cleared his throat. "What happened, Zee-vah?"

She continued staring at the fixed point but stiffened imperceptibly. "I went for a run." - Stubbornly maintaining the blocking attitude.

Tony raised his eyes, impatiently, heavenward; taking a minute to curb his temper. "I meant at the Juárez place." They had wasted so many opportunities with this type of futile fencing – endless, absurd. The realization was depressing and aggravating.

Ziva met his disapproving gaze, with a confused look, and shook her head. A little jolt of shock hit when Tony understood her meaning - she didn't really have an adequate answer. Ziva wasn't avoiding. She couldn't engage in the discussion; either she didn't know, or, what she knew didn't entirely make sense. It was as if a fault line in her psyche had ruptured. Ziva stretched out her legs, unnaturally clumsy when she turned around. Preparing to get up, resume her jog – flight.

"Can't run from this one, Ninja." Tony's comment was easy but firm; grabbing the upper part of her arm to prevent her moving away. When his fingers touched her skin, he was seized by sudden concern.

"Goddamn it, Zee-vah, you're fucking freezing." Surprised, immensely annoyed with himself for not noticing sooner, his admonishment was sharper than necessary. "How long have you been out here?" Tony demanded, shrugging off his jacket – one hand still holding onto her – as she stood shivering violently.

Ziva looked vacantly at the river. "I do not know."

The day had started sunny and reasonably warm for late September. However, a cold front had blown through – bringing drenching rain and lowering the temperature. As the evening gathered, the air was raw - promising autumn in earnest. The wind had swung around and there was a stiff, chill breeze blowing off the water. Ziva had set out before the change in the weather. Dressed for her exercise under clear skies and sunshine, the shorts and light tank no match for the inclement conditions.

* * *

**Many thanks for the reviews if you've posted one. Yes I did leave you with a cliff-hanger but not really - five chapters proof-read and published. The story is finished, with luck the next ones will be up very shortly. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. If you can please post a review; tell me what parts worked, what parts didn't or tell me to stop…**


	13. Answered Prayers

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 13 - Worth noting again: I've left the specifics of what happened to Ziva deliberately vague. I know what I think happened - but I really have tried to write it ambiguously.**

**- As always with the cases and background details.**

* * *

"_When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers."_

_Oscar Wilde_

**September 2010**

"Take off your socks and sneakers." Tony ordered, turning on the water and adjusting the temperature.

He did know of another effective method for reviving body heat – alas it seemed wholly inappropriate for the current circumstances. After Ziva complied, he bundled her – fully dressed and with little ceremony - into the shower. Her clothes were soaked through from the rain anyway.

Upon discovery of her state, Tony had half marched, half dragged her back to his car. She was very, very cold – possibly mildly hypothermic. Ziva was capable of running considerable distances – this evening she had covered over twelve miles. Absorbed by her troubles and paying attention neither to time, nor direction. Her eventual location was closer to Tony's apartment than her own. He selected the nearest, fastest destination over taking her home. Wrapped in his jacket, in the car, her body temperature rose somewhat during the short drive. Nevertheless, Ziva was still shivering as Tony propelled her through his bedroom. He was muttering darkly about extraordinary stupidity, querying the quality of her survival training - steadfastly ignoring her sporadic protests that she was perfectly alright.

With the immediate crisis averted, he went to collect fresh towels - leaving the door open. Glancing in to check on her, he saw Ziva had slid down and was sitting in the shower, with her back resting against the side of the cubicle. The reasons for her presence in the park – temporarily forgotten – crashed through logistics into the forefront of his consciousness. Her arm was stretched out into the stream of tepid water; a pensive shadow on her features. Rotating her wrist, Ziva was lost in thought – watching the spray splashing through her fingers. Tony kicked off his shoes and stepped into the shower – squatting beside her.

"It rained once whilst I was Saleem's prisoner." A quiet, almost inaudible, statement as she cupped her palm, catching a pool. "It cleaned the air. It was not so dusty…for a few days." Tipping her hand, she let the water run down and drop off the ends of her fingers. "The sound was different; it drummed on the roof."

It may have only been a meteorological summary. However, after twelve months of conspicuous deflection, she was raising the topic. Ziva– finally - volunteered information about her captivity. He cautiously connected the pieces; trying to solidify the link.

"That's what yesterday was about?" Tony asked evenly but very carefully. "Somalia?"

Ziva nodded, leaning toward him a little. And he slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulled her closer - resting his chin on the top of her head. Tony waited to see if Ziva would say anything further. She didn't. They just sat like that for a short while in the soothing flow. Eventually, Tony stood, holding out his hand and helping her up.

"Stay here." - Indicating the bathroom. "I'm gonna get changed." Now his clothes were damp too. Ziva would need something to change into whilst hers dried.

Tony liked to sleep with all of the windows open whenever possible. He had succeeded in restoring warmth. There was no point in her hanging around in the cooler rooms because he had to figure out what Ziva could wear. This was the downside to his hasty decision; clearly not the smartest choice between the two apartments after all. He tossed her a clean towel - which she caught as a reflex - and disappeared into the bedroom. When he returned, Tony assumed Ziva would be drying off or wrapped in a towel waiting for him – instead she was standing, motionless, in the middle of the floor. The rivulets from her hair and clothes obeyed gravity – falling and slowly creating a small puddle around her feet.

Walking over to her, Tony tipped up her chin; "Zee-vah?" A trace of concern tinged his voice.

It was an odd relief when she gave him an unreadable look. Odd because she started to speak in a flat monotone. In his absence, Ziva had resolved an attempt at explanation.

"There were two generators...one near my cell. The other was outside the interrogation room." It was a detached reference – in fact Ziva's tone was eerily impassive. Tony was listening intently; focused as much on her demeanor, as he was on her words.

"… They made different sounds. The timing cycle was faulty on one; it misfired at intervals." The bizarre, dissociative sense amplified by the rational diagnosis; she was a reasonably adept mechanic.

At the beginning of Ziva's somber soliloquy, Tony had started undressing her, tugging the tank over her head. A businesslike operation; she couldn't stay dripping in the bathroom. Additionally, the process gave him something to do. He was trying to reduce the extreme pressure of self-consciousness upon Ziva. Simply standing still might well weird her out - stop her talking. Tony desperately wanted to keep her talking.

"It was how I knew where I was…if I awoke. The generators - sometimes it was difficult." She hesitated, like she was remembering a particular event, then continued, "…when it was dark….."

Ziva's testimony faltered as Tony reached around and unclasped her bra. "My location was not always immediately apparent." Although her voice still held the collected, distant note, the words were becoming slower in delivery – forced. He reclaimed the large towel, draping it around her shoulders.

"I could tell if I were asleep or….." She stopped completely. Taking a breath, Ziva began again; her hands twisting the towel. "If I were asleep…or…" For the first time, a hint of shaky constriction emerged. "…or….or if temporary loss of consciousness had occurred." The austere, almost antispetic terminology removed her from the discomfort zone. In contrast, Tony flinched; his jaw clenched slightly.

"The noise was an indicator." Ziva looked up at him, quizzically, to see if he understood.

"You heard a noise." Tony repeated her phrase from the previous day as instant comprehension dawned. "Christ." - Grimly assessing the information.

It held together as a hypothesis – sort of. The spluttering gargle of the machine switching on had sparked memory. Ziva's conditioned, volatile instinct to fight activated. Tony didn't dwell on the distressing idea of her struggling, defenseless, resistance in Somalia. This time she was armed; able to strike back at her attackers. The worrying implication of a relinquished perception of reality was an unwelcome complication. However, it was one which could keep for now.

Ziva nodded. "It is de-humanizing." Her gaze slipped away and she resumed her haunting speech. "It is designed to be; isolation and interrogation…The application of fear: sometimes subtle, sometimes not." – Fixed, professional impartiality providing a cornerstone, enabling her to revisit the experience, "An intelligent method for breaking someone."

"Fucking barbaric, more like." Tony couldn't help his acerbic remark.

She frowned. "You have questioned suspects, obtained confessions."

This was true. All elements to his job and some of his behavior could be described, quite accurately, as menacing or extortionate. In dedicated, conscientious prosecution of his duties, it would be mere sophistry to argue he had never been legally - if not morally – guilty of assault.

His dissent was immediate, angry and harsh. "I've never brutalized anyone for…" - hurt by the parallel – "…for fucking sport, Zee-vah."

Ziva bit her lip; he had misunderstood. "No, Tony, I am sorry." For a moment, tears pricked the back of her eyes. "I would never believe or….mean to suggest you would."

Silence descended. Tony was trying to follow her reasoning; appalled he'd prompted an apology. "It wasn't personal. For them, I mean?" He tentatively offered, "Not all of it, anyway?"

Ziva gave a small nod, staring at her toes.

"And thinking like that…it makes it easier to talk about somehow?" Not a total stab in the dark; belatedly, Tony grasped Ziva's point. Fervently hoping he could make amends – that she wouldn't withdraw.

She thought in terms of objectives; actions having defined purpose, pursuit of prescribed results. By assessing her ill-treatment within those terms, she could control the damage. Mindless cruelty – humiliating another human being simply because one could - was too nebulous, too arbitrary. It would be unmanageable. Ironically, Tony's outrage was the more rational viewpoint. He could – and most definitely did - examine the facts; passing dispassionate judgment and condemnation on the perpetrators. Still too close to the ordeal, as yet, Ziva lacked that power.

"I was angry, at first." His considerate attempt at appeasement produced the desired effect. Ziva chose to continue. "Very angry."

She returned his ghost of a fond grin – Tony wouldn't have expected anything less than full force Ninja wrath – with an equally apparitional smile. "With my father, with Michael…."

"With me?" A candid interruption - this was not the time to be squeamish about his participation in events.

"When I was in Tel Aviv," she matched his honesty. "But then I realized…" She changed tack, leaving the thought unfinished. "I was angry with Mossad." Ziva was picking at a loose thread on the towel. "Angry with myself – I had made a mistake." Her tone implying the mistake was in fighting Tony, not the solo offensive against the terrorist camp. "I had failed."

Seeing him about to debate the characterization of fault, she shook her head. "I had been captured."

Tony remembered her vow never to be taken alive. "It was easy to remain strong in the beginning, but time…." Ziva tailed off again. "Time becomes an invisible enemy. They could keep me indefinitely – perhaps until I could be exchanged for some of Saleem's fighters."

The nervous hesitancy resurfaced. "Then I was….frightened." Ziva looked at him quickly - to see if Tony would react.

It was a huge admission; Tony couldn't recall Ziva articulating fear – in any form – ever. Undoubtedly she felt it, a fact underlined by her need for light in Paris. However, verbally acknowledging what she viewed as unforgivable weakness was always restricted by a disciplined, iron will. He recognized the particular duality of her nature at work. The extraordinary toughness hid a heart-wrenching vulnerability; the vulnerability fueled the toughness. Co-existing, concomitant: the overriding features of her complex personality.

"Jesus, Zee-vah, anyone would be." Gently; wanting to downplay the confession, not spook her. The realization she could be held without end in sight. An open-ended appointment with fear and torment, until her usefulness as a bartering chip could be employed, must have been terrifying. 'I was frightened' probably didn't even come close to the actuality.

"And then I did not feel anything." Ziva's sparse tone mirrored the bleak emptiness she must have felt; complete shut-down the only means of protection available to her.

"And then you survived." Tony reminded her of the extraordinary feat; not with pity, but with admiration for her defiance.

Tony expected Ziva would, naturally, take over the removal of her wet clothes; she would complete the task of undressing. When she stood, unmoving and partially clad, it gradually became apparent that would not occur. Unthinking, he started again where he had left off. Hooking his thumbs into her waistbands, Tony slid her shorts and underwear down her legs in one smooth motion. Tapping the back of her calf, like she was a horse, indicating she should lift one foot. If he hadn't suddenly realized what he was doing, it would have been purely incidental.

As Ziva removed her other foot from the soggy garments, his cheek accidentally brushed against the inside of her thigh. Tony became acutely aware of his actions – and the softness of her skin. He broke out in a cold sweat, his hands started shaking and there was a distinct uptick in his heart-rate. He frantically tried to un-hear the light catch in Ziva's breath; tried to un-feel the quiver of unmistakable response which ran through her body at the contact. In an effort to master the wave of reactions registering, he straightened up very slowly. Tony tried not to notice the droplet of water, trickling along the curve of her hip. He blotted out the mutinous, enticing image of taking her up against the tiled wall.

Tony swallowed, taking a step back and balling his fists. Ziva took a step toward him. It would be so easy. His lips were infinitesimally close to hers; but her body language was all wrong. She was stiff - almost as if she were steeling herself – with a slightly bewildered expression in her eyes. Despite her swaying nearer to him, he detected a disconnect; she was giving the impression of fulfilling an expected behavior – required by Tony. Rather than advancing an explicit wish of her own. He caught her hands, holding them down by Ziva's sides, fingers laced.

"Don't…don't rush it, Zee-vah." Very softly, with green eyes locked on brown. "Just let it happen."

* * *

Tony strode to the kitchen, picked up the bottle of Scotch, half-filled a lowball glass, and drained it - all in one very rapid, determined sequence. Slamming down the glass with such force, he was fortunate the bottom didn't crack. He was cursing every deity he knew. He included a generalized expletive for any divine beings with whom he might be, personally, unfamiliar - for an all-encompassing effect. Ziva was in his apartment, naked, clearly coming onto him. And he had said no. He had to. The undeniable virtue of this act did little to comfort him. Tony leaned on the counter, propping himself with his hands and renewed the internal onslaught against the ears of the gods.

Having vented some frustration, he started thinking about their situation. Sex would have been a simple resolution – nothing simpler for Tony. Over the years he found it to be an excellent, instant solution to many problems. He genuinely hadn't meant to initiate anything. Their physical responses to the careless touch, to each other, were merely an unlucky consequence. Or, depending on which perspective he applied: a really good sign. Yet other, more pressing, issues remained. Exactly what was going on in Ziva's head and her emotional state needed addressing. There was the unhappy fact that, essentially, he'd rejected her – on one level. Her reaction to tonight would be pivotal. Either she would turn to him or, she would push him away; construct a more substantial wall around herself. Tony knew Ziva's opening up was significant; knew it was too important to figuratively – and quite literally – screw up.

Waiting for her to join him, he tried to figure out what his approach should be. How he could maintain the atmosphere of understanding, advance the discussion. For the time being, at least, she couldn't go anywhere; not until her clothes dried. Quite by chance, the break - which had proved so elusive for so long – had happened. As he pondered, Tony realized he had made a promise to her – after a fashion. 'Let it happen' equaled a variation of the future perfect tense. It was a statement it would happen; a proto-commitment. And, funnily enough, the idea he'd just made a commitment, of his own free will, didn't bother him at all.

* * *

Ziva pulled Tony's sweatshirt over her head, quelling the uproar within. Tony had left the sweatshirt and an old pair of pajama pants he never wore, laid out on his bed. As she dressed, she sifted through her thoughts; a mental inventory, categorized in order of assigned importance. Her first task was to contain the vast array of conflicting feelings. There was the basic admission to herself that confiding in Tony was easier, more comforting than she had imagined. More disconcerting was his touchingly thoughtful concern for her well-being. Beginning with the worried search, through simply taking care of her; culminating with Tony's sensitive, intuitive audience of her narrative. In all honesty, she was forced to admit these were not new or unusual behaviors. Sitting on the bed, to roll up the over-long pant legs, Ziva contemplated this man whose participation in her life had really never been anything other than a positive.

Tony was always there for her; a constant presence. This permanence brilliantly illuminated when he appeared before her - in a savage, isolated camp on the other side of the world. During those dreadful, anguished summer months - from May until September - Ziva assembled the constituent pieces leading to her fate. Characteristically examining cause and effect: not shying away from scrupulous acknowledgment of her culpability. Without question, Michael Rivkin had used her; used her body, manipulated her loyalties and exploited her frailties. Ziva's regretful conclusions were centered upon the idea the whole episode could – should – have been avoided. If she had not allowed herself to fall for a facsimile of love, none of the ensuing harm would have happened.

Ultimately, she was grateful when Tony shoved another towel into her hands and abruptly left the bathroom. However, her initial, physical reaction was an inescapable truth. The rough stubble against the top of her leg, the feel of his breath on her skin had stirred and re-animated an ever-present yearning.

Tonight they had skirted the edge of the cliff – again. For Ziva the drop was so very alluring. However, the ramifications of misunderstood motives and emotions had created an immutable boundary in her head. Moreover, Ziva was terrified of any sense of awkwardness or tension - with all the layers of their history between them. Not because it was sex but because it was Tony, because she loved him. And if she did lock up, it would dictate an inevitable transient aspect to the encounter; cruelly accenting all she had destroyed in their relationship.

* * *

**This chapter is the reason for the whole story. The end of One Last Score irritated me and I decided I wanted to write my own 'shower scene'! The chapter didn't work out as I envisaged originally & neither did the story. I imagined it would be funnier! **

**Many thanks for the reviews if you've posted one. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. If you can please post a review; tell me likes/dislikes, or that you've given up…**


	14. Between Two Thieves

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 14 – still with me? More angst. **

**Again with the cases and background details….**

* * *

"_Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves – regret for yesterday and fear of tomorrow."_

_Fulton Oursler_

**September 2010**

"I ordered Chinese." Tony turned around as Ziva eventually joined him in the kitchen. "That OK?"

Countless hours spent together, on stake-outs, dictated they were exceedingly familiar with each other's tastes in convenience food menus. Ziva hadn't hurried out of the bedroom – absorbed by thought and the restoration of equilibrium. Driven partly by hunger and the belief Ziva should eat something, Tony didn't wait for a consultation. Additionally, those factors coupled with the notion eating could provide a sufficiently distracting backdrop against which they could progress.

"Yes." Ziva was standing beside the doorway - leaning against the wall, with her hands behind her back. "But you may not read my Fortune cookie."

This was an optimistic start. Years ago, Ziva had refused to let him read her 'fortune' – on the grounds disclosure meant it wouldn't come true. Tony had tried to convince her of the error. She was mixing superstitions; don't tell wishes, do tell fortunes. Ziva wouldn't be persuaded and the squabble had morphed into a running joke. Every time they ate Chinese, the tradition was renewed.

"It's not a wish." Tony grinned. "Want something to drink?"

He was working from an angle of easy neutrality. A break from the intense mood wouldn't do them any harm. Moreover, he still wasn't quite certain of what he could achieve, or how.

"Water? Tea?...maybe not tea." Tony backtracked as he realized that particularly beverage was not within his power. "Bee…"

Ziva glanced at his glass on the counter – he'd even bothered to the take time and add the rocks for the refill. "Vodka, please."

"Little Water it is. Go inside, the food'll be here in…" - Glancing at the time, "Five minutes."

* * *

Handing Ziva her drink, Tony winced as she swallowed the large measure in one. Ziva had learned to drink vodka in Eastern Europe; no sipping, drink what's in the glass. Her action was simple good manners - unlike Tony's earlier self-medication of Dutch courage. Courtesy notwithstanding, tired-and-emotional Ziva was an unpredictable puzzle. Tired-and-emotional and drunk Ziva could lend an excessive amount of capriciousness to proceedings. He would try and remember to pour less next time.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Ziva was sat on the sofa with her legs curled under her; Tony in a chair. The choice to place distance between them was deliberate on his part – just in case. As was his technique of waiting for Ziva to start talking – or not. She looked ridiculous, drowning in his clothes. She also looked tiny, almost ethereal, which tugged at his heart. Tony was on the verge of giving in – of trying to initiate the conversation himself – when Ziva spoke.

"I could have killed you yesterday." An unvarnished assessment of her actions: killed being the most pertinent word. If Ziva had squeezed the trigger, Tony would be dead. They both knew that to be an irrefutable truth.

"Yeah." Tony cocked an eyebrow. "But you didn't." His laconic reply an equally plain statement.

"Tony, I could have killed you." Ziva added a much stronger emphasis in the reiteration of her words. The tone faintly suggested he hadn't understood.

"_Could've_, Zee-vah. You didn't." Tony stressed his own point. "Could'ves don't count." He smiled. His remark made it sound like they were interpreting nothing more important than the rules of stick-ball.

Ziva rejected the trivial tone. "They do if they imperil others." Contritely reinforcing her position; she had, obliquely anyway, threatened him. "….Or might happen again." She was avoiding his look - her eyes serious and worried.

Tony didn't say anything for a minute, thinking. "It's not like it's the first time you've ever pulled a gun on me, remember?"

His relaxed, brief allusion to their fight in Tel Aviv was deliberate. Those events - that fierce, angry encounter - inextricably bound with the entire discussion. It was also an outright declaration of intent. The subject couldn't be kept off the table forever.

"And, since it's us we're talking about, I doubt it'll be the last." It was a light-hearted comment though there was curiosity over the effect 'us' might provoke.

"No, Tony." Ziva shook her head. "This was different." The words stated slowly, cautiously.

She ignored the joke – and his ambiguous description of them as a couple. Pre-occupied by analyzing the apparent, disturbing breach in her regimented being, other matters faded into obscurity.

Tony leaned forward, taking a sip of his drink. "Why, Zee-vah?" Trying to avoid the suggestion of pressure; yet he couldn't help if he didn't know what she was thinking. "What makes it different this time?" Although Tony was fairly certain he knew what; having already glimpsed the tip of the iceberg.

Ziva was wary of completely explaining her reasons. They were convoluted and imperfectly formed; more an impression or shadow than a defined idea. Again, the comfort derived from confiding in Tony was an appealing prospect. Nevertheless, her inability to answer his queries succinctly – and with clarity – might be public confirmation of her private fears. Unsure and uncomfortable, Ziva deflected.

She looked at Tony. "When I saw you in Africa, I thought you were an hallucination." Her voice lightened, her face registered delight as the memory of that moment - recognition and realization - flooded her mind.

When Saleem whisked the hood from her head, neither had reacted particularly appropriately. Tony, battling drug-impaired consciousness, had experienced Ziva's resurrection through a hazy, fuzzy fog. Ziva, emotionally paralyzed, had been stunned by the influx of barely dared for hope. It was only later, separately, the two found it possible to truly evaluate their feelings. Tony met her gaze and returned the smile. For the first time, the topic of Somalia had arisen without tension, or guilt, or reticence. Tony suspected a connection, perhaps not conscious, in the shift from yesterday's flashback to the mention of mental acuity. For the present, he was willing to let it slide.

"Say mirage; it sounds better, more rom…."

He was about to say romantic; meaning of the grand, desert adventure type. With Ziva's grasp on the subtleties of the English language somewhat less than firm, Tony didn't want any additional confusion entering the mix. Despite the fact - if he were being completely honest - there had been a very considerable amount of the other definition underpinning his quest.

Tony corrected his word choice. "Hallucination sounds like a bad trip." Grinning, he amended again. "On second thoughts, given the Saleem Special, maybe hallucination is more accurate."

Ziva placed her half finished food on a table. Picking up her replenished drink, she tipped it back and forth; watching the liquid roll from side to side.

"A rescue did not seem possible." Ziva slipped into the unhappier reminiscences; the note in her voice distant as if she were recounting someone else's tale. "I realized Eli's mission had failed….I had not acquired my target." Hesitating before the next statement; "Mossad would consider me lost."

The unspoken message was Ziva's father had written her off; forsaken as a casualty of war.

"That's gotta hurt?" Tony looked at her sympathetically. It didn't really need a reply. He was testing to see if this area was one she would elaborate.

She ran her fingertip around the lip of the glass. "No, Tony, it is understandable. Eli's position as the Director of Mossad…." She gave a resigned shrug. "It is bigger than family, than me." Once again, professional disengagement insulated her from the impact of Ziva's place in her father's priorities. "And I was a….liability for them."

Tony hated when Ziva described herself in objective terms. She sometimes expressed her worth by value as an asset, or operative; a legacy of her upbringing and training. He restrained the impulse to give his opinion of Eli David's parenting skills. Although, he had done so once before - to the man's face - with thinly veiled scorn.

"Still gotta hurt, Zee-vah." Settling, instead, for an acknowledgement of the price she'd paid for being the Director of Mossad's daughter.

"I knew they would not come for me." Ziva glanced at him. "And then, despite everything…" The addendum was left hanging for a second; 'everything' was an implicit reference. "…you were there."

Imperceptibly, the tension level increased as the phantom of Michael Rivkin was disinterred and hovered between them. The damage wrought, the reasons for that damage – and far too many evasive and incomplete conversations – were at the crux of the issue.

"Aboard the Damocles, even prior to that really," she fixed her eyes on the doorway to the kitchen – totally off Tony's look - "I realized you were right." Ziva stopped toying with it and drank the shot of vodka. "Michael _was_ playing…using…me."

Tony tensed. He knew talking about the wayward Mossad Officer was a necessary evil. Tony's role and his motivations surrounding the death of Rivkin were a cluttered maze – deliberately unexplored. Uncharacteristic uncertainty slipped into his voice.

"He was playing everyone, Zee-vah. You…." Tony paused. "….me," - Regaining the matter-of-fact attitude. "NCIS - the guy was off reservation." He scowled in disgust. The civilities of not speaking ill of the dead didn't apply here. "Probably even playing your father." Unable to contain the trace of smug satisfaction; Eli David's anointed son-in-law-in-waiting had proved to be a gross error in judgment.

There was an interlude of re-grouping; a natural break in the chain of repair. Tony poured more drinks. Tonight the tail feathers were a required supplement - circumspect in the measure of Ziva's third. On his way back, Tony wondered if this would be the extent of the exchange. If that were case, it had worked out well. Ziva caught him completely off-guard.

"Why did you travel to Somalia, Tony?" It was a very direct, very determined inquiry.

Ziva was also pondering whether their efforts could be classified as successful or not. Additionally, she had noticed Tony's altered behavior at the mention of Rivkin. Clearly, the matter needed to be addressed in more detail than Tony's scathing summary. Leaving it unsaid would defeat their purpose.

Re-taking his seat, shooting a quick look in her direction, Tony spoke carefully. "I thought you were dead."

Ziva smiled at the patently invalid logic. "So why did you go?" She persisted reproachfully.

"I….I thought you were dead…." Tony stared into the bottom of his glass.

He was unwilling to access the dark, desolate void ripped open by four blunt words; "there were no survivors." In truth, he had simply sought to kill someone – anyone – even remotely connected. Saleem had been uncannily accurate in designating the enterprise as a vendetta. There would definitely be blood; a lot of it, if Tony had his way. Tracking the terrorist, volunteering for the assignment to Africa were Tony's attempts at respite from a despairing, inconsolable grief. The pursuit of vengeance supplied a deadly point of focus; a reason to keep going.

"….I wanted a little pay-back, I guess." - An extraordinarily inadequate appraisal of the circumstances. Slowly exhaling a breath – steadied by the knowledge he just had to look across the room and Ziva would be there. The echo of an agonizing sense of loss, real enough at the time, receded.

Ziva watched him; observing the strength of his reaction. Oddly, she'd never thought about how Tony – or any of them - would have received the news of her death. She was struck by the, albeit transitory, expression of desperation which had raged in Tony's eyes.

"But you believed I had died in a storm before I reached Somalia?" Ziva cautiously prompted again. "There was very little intelligence regarding Saleem, the camp." She was reluctant to coerce unpleasant memories. However, gaps still remained in his account. "And the Mossad raid was a unilateral action?" They had progressed thus far without detriment – and they ought to continue.

"Eli wasn't giving Vance anything." He sighed; her rational tenacity was noticeable. "Gibbs had talked with Dunham, he was in country." Tony took a drink. "If it was at all possible, if there was a chance…we were gonna take it." Raising his eyebrows, he added philosophically, "Gibbs had a hunch."

Ziva tucked her legs closer, her chin cupped in her hand. Reflecting on the simple twist of fate; her eventual salvation had rested largely with two men who trusted their instincts. Uncovering far more by relying on gut-reactions; than many discovered by the application of studious intellect and methodologies.

"Tony?" He hadn't answered the second part of her question.

"We knew enough," Tony's grip on the glass tightened, "to link the camp; there was the stuff on the laptop….knew enough about Rivkin's stunt in L.A." Leaning back he ran his fingers through his hair. "It's why I went there….that night….to your apartment." The specific split-second which had unleashed hell and all its minions, finally, intruded into the conversation. "To prove it to you, about him - I was going to tell you…."

"I know." Her quiet interruption highlighted the change; this was a live re-adaptation of the fights nearly eighteen months ago. This time Ziva was listening.

"I'm not sorry I killed him, Zee-vah." There was stark, stone-cold animosity toward his deceased rival in Tony's voice. Bullshit at this moment would be counter-productive. He would do it again, in a heartbeat, if needed. "But I didn't go there to do that." He emptied his glass. "Christ, I didn't even go to fucking arrest him." Tony stopped, giving Ziva a long, searching look. "I went to see you."

"Tony, I know. You were right." - With comforting calm and a little perplexed frown. "All this, it was in your report. The one I read."

He shook his head and took a deep breath. "No. You don't know." Tony swallowed, hesitating. "I wasn't the only one who was right." - Concentrating on the leftover ice sliding around as he swirled his glass. "I lied to you, Zee-vah."

He met her steady, grave gaze. "I wanted to….I was protecting you." He gave her a rueful smile. "Guess I didn't do such a great job."

"It was self-defense, Tony." Ziva didn't react to the introduction of a different angle. "You were doing your job, your duty."

He fiddled with his watch. "It wasn't just duty." – Very, very quietly, not looking at her.

His report, scrupulously accurate in detail, had omitted that vital aspect; the dry narration concealing the jealousy and frustrated feelings. In the heated arguments – before and after the shooting – Tony unwaveringly maintained the principle of merely professional level involvement – looking out for his partner, fulfilling his obligations as an NCIS agent. Not that he had been protecting Ziva. Not that an elemental response and possessiveness were coloring his behavior. Not that the idea she might, actually, love Michael Rivkin was indirectly driving him crazy.

The entire scenario had unfolded so quickly, Tony hadn't ever properly examined his motivations. It was easier to promote the image of close friends, colleagues. Ziva re-joined Mossad, died and came back to life – all within the space of four months. To others, his claim of responsibility needed no explanation. A justified kill lead to an unfortunate, unforeseeable outcome. However, 'I did it for you' was a searing self-indictment of his guilt. Sub-consciously Tony was plagued by a dreadful demon; he had inadvertently caused the death – or later the suffering - of the woman he loved. Numbing the pain took priority over isolating the secondary source of the hurt. Overwhelming happiness – joy really - when she was returned to him, permitted Tony to submerge the original impetus behind his actions. Kept in check; unclaimed, unidentified until Miller had kidnapped her.

"And that is why you went to Somalia?" Ziva, gently persevering, asked the question. "For atonement?"

The precise rationale of Rule #12 in all its infuriating glory - in their line of work impartiality was critical. Tony had, conceptually at least, transgressed; resulting in swift, terrible retribution.

"Yes." - Still not looking at her. "I'd fucked up…and you were dead." He shrugged. "I was trying to fix things, even the score." His voice was relaxing, losing the stressed edge; the post mortem becoming more detached and less immediate. "Like Gibbs, I guess."

The analogy was obvious. Yet it had never occurred to anyone because, at the time, no-one knew about the Reynosas – except Gibbs and Mike Franks. Gibbs had taken revenge against the man who murdered his wife and child. Racked with regret he was not present to protect them. Tony unconsciously imitated his mentor's dispensation of justice. His boss' unyielding, understated support of Tony's investigation and recommended plan were a display of compassionate empathy. Of course, Gibbs was invested in the search for Ziva and he would never abandon a team member. More importantly, Gibbs allowed Tony considerable leeway – Mike Franks had done the same for him - because he recognized what Tony was going through. Gibbs knew exactly what it felt like.

"It was not your fault, Tony." She so wanted to draw the poison, heal this wound for him. "Michael's, Eli's….or perhaps mine; but not yours."

Tony cocked his head. "Some of it might've been avoided if I'd been thinking straight." There was a resignation to the eminently plausible theory; a need for honesty. He was slightly surprised he hadn't been impaled by a fork over the earlier admission of deceit.

They were saying things which should have been said a long time ago; when Gibbs and McGee were in L.A., perhaps at the hospital, or in Tel Aviv. Immediately after Ziva's arrival back in the U.S. would have been more useful. Nevertheless, at last Ziva was able to comprehend Tony's remorse stemmed from more complex reasons than had first appeared. Even if she wasn't accepting what her conclusion signified. And Tony had confessed there had been a distinctly personal component to the debacle - even if the depth, and status quo, of the personal had been left clouded.

"And what happened afterwards…to me, was not your fault either." Ziva tilted her head as she employed his own argument against him. "Might haves do not count."

Tony did look at her, with a smile of appreciation.

"Why, or, what might, or could – those do not matter." She indicated a move away from the blame-game. "They are just clothing in windows….."

For a moment she lost him. "Dressing; you mean window dressing?" Tony interjected with a smile.

Ziva followed her thought as if he hadn't spoken "…conjecture serves no purpose." She had switched into her sensible, dispassionate mode. Her drink finished, Ziva uncurled her legs; unwinding and nestling back into the cushions.

"Then why does what happened yesterday matter, Zee-vah?"

It was a casual afterthought. Full circle: her remark reminding him of the reason she was in his apartment. And a Titanic-worthy iceberg rose to the surface.

She stiffened, "Because….people will wonder about me." Strain imposed itself, once more, upon Ziva's face.

"Jesus Zee-vah, I've wondered about you since the day you strolled into the squad-room with someone else's blood on your feet." Tony grinned good-naturedly.

Ziva had never been the type to be unduly perturbed by the opinions of others. The easy remark was a hint the excuse was too simplistic.

"Because I could have killed you." Again, Ziva raised the defense of endangering Tony. It was true. It was also disingenuous because it was not the root of her upset.

Again, Tony calmly repeated his objection. "But you didn't." - Trying to think of a way into the closed system which was Ziva's current universe on the episode.

She remained silent, staring out of the window. "When I was with Miller, we talked." Ziva looked directly at Tony, "He said I was like him." There was a trace of sympathy in her simple comment.

Tony recalled the day of her release, Miller's strange outburst; 'she's hurt.' He held Ziva's eyes. "You're not like Miller." - A firm, flat-out denial of the fears.

"He saw something, recognized something…in me." She glanced away, her eyes darting down. "In Paris…." Here Ziva's voice started to break a little, tears threatening. "You saw me…." And there was a wistful emphasis on the word 'you'.

All her careful efforts at pretence, at normality, had seemingly failed. Yesterday, in front of Tony – again - and in addition McGee, Ziva's formidable endurance deserted her. It was unexpected, out of her control and had come with near-disastrous consequences. For Ziva the natural inference had to be; she was damaged. In a catastrophically destructive short space of times, Ziva was crushed by the belief she was indelibly, irrevocably marked for life.

Tony could see the distress mounting; exacerbated by old-fashioned tiredness and psychological exhaustion. "It was a nightmare." He cut her off soothingly. "People have them – 'bout all kindsa stuff."

In all honesty, he was concerned by Ziva's mini-freak; he had begun formulating a provisional plan to deal with the trouble. Revealing his concern, tonight, wouldn't be helpful and would likely increase Ziva's alarm.

"And yesterday was a one-off." He paused carefully, "because it hasn't happened before, has it?" This was a requisite piece of information. Once was weird, more than once would be decidedly worrying.

"No." Ziva shook her head. She met his eyes with pensive fatalism. "Some types of trauma can cause permanent injury, debilitating effects." Her melancholy tone and plain words said what she could not. Ziva was doubtful of her mental health and capacities.

"Christ, you're not broken, Zee-vah." Tony was absolute in his assertion, staunchly refusing to accept Ziva's splintered self view.

A lifeboat was launched in the form of sleepiness. The physical and emotional weariness conspired, aided and abetted by the three decent sized vodkas; their plot discernible for some time. Slowly Ziva had been slumping further down on the sofa. Now she was yawning and blinking frequently – though the interval between closing and re-opening her lids was getting longer.

His quiet insistence of her well-being began to take hold, quelling much of the rising tide of stress. "But what if I am crazy?" – A much lessened, sleepier manifestation of anxiety.

"Oh, I didn't say you weren't crazy, Zee-vah." Tony grinned. "I only said you don't need retro-fixing."

"It cannot be undone." – She yawned again, her vague remark a result of the outside influences exerting a stronger hold.

Tony responded gently. "It doesn't need to be undone." Aware of her fight with fatigue, that Ziva was on course for an imminent defeat.

There were a few minutes of silence - Tony wondered if she had fallen asleep – before Ziva spoke again. "Palmer will always think he must choose his words….the rest will always be curious about what they did to me…."

It was a drowsily murmured recurrence of the earlier theme. The sense she would never be able to commend the ordeal to her past; because of other people's perceptions. Filling in the blanks with their own details, presumed events and effects; and judging Ziva's responses accordingly. Holding her to their expectations; non-conformity was aberrant. "McGee will always think I am unstable…."

"So? Let them think what they like." - Reassuringly dismissing the point.

Ziva stretched out completely, fidgeting a little, before lying still. "You…you will always look at me and think…." She drifted off without describing the character of Tony's thoughts.

Very softly, very earnestly, Tony replied anyway. "You don't know what I think when I look at you." It was impossible to tell if Ziva heard him or not.

* * *

Tony was worn-out too. Basically, he had been up for nearly two days straight. Moreover, they hadn't been the most relaxed, fun-filled forty-eight hours Tony had ever spent in the company of a beautiful woman. Clearing away glasses and uneaten food, he grinned as he collected Ziva's unopened Fortune cookie. Wondering how much mileage could be had from annoying her with the thought he'd read it. Pausing before heading for bed, Tony checked on Ziva. Briefly he weighed the merits of carrying her to the bedroom. Deciding against; if she stirred during the transfer, it might transmit all manner of wrong signals. He covered Ziva with a quilt and left one light on.

"I am going home." Ziva made her announcement, standing beside his bed - having finally succeeded in rousing Tony.

"OK." It was more of a sleepy grunt of agreement than an actual word.

Realizing she hadn't succeeded quite as thoroughly as she intended, Ziva tried again. "I am going home."

Tony's next utterance was no more conscious than the previous one. "OK."

"Tony." Ziva abandoned the humane approach; flicking his ear sharply with her middle finger and snapping his name.

"What?" He opened his eyes, looking up - rubbing the ear in resentful surprise.

"I am sorry." More automated than truly sincere – although she reverted to a moderate tone of voice, "I am going home."

"Now?" Rolling onto his side, he peered at the clock in pained disbelief. "Jesus, its….its….its fucking early, Zee-vah." Tony threw off the covers and sat up with a grimace. "OK, give me a minute and I'll take you." He was still not fully alert.

She smiled, in affectionate amusement, at the very endearing oh-crap-I'm-awake routine. "Yes, now." Ziva briskly explained her reason for disturbing him. "I did not want you to worry when you woke up." She reached over and pulled the sheet back up. "I have called a cab."

Tony screwed up his face, running a hand over it - in an effort to kick-start his brain. "Let me drive you."

"No. Thank you." Ziva leaned forward and gently stroked his shoulder, with the soft, caring instruction. "Go back to sleep." And she left.

Tony did go back to sleep. Ziva chatted animatedly, in a mixture of languages, with her Algerian taxi driver - about Moroccan restaurants.

No-one had vanished abruptly. There had been no arguing; no emotionally bruising, vicious disputes. The night wasn't ending in a storm of angry frustration or tense, unresolved doubts. Tony and Ziva had not made assumptions – major ones at least - about each other. They had not deflected from awkward topics.

Far more of a morning person than Tony would ever be, Ziva had woken early. Her natural inclination was not to sit around and wait for him. It was a week day, she needed clothes and to prepare for work. Ziva wasn't running; she was just going home.

* * *

**Many thanks for the reviews if you've posted one. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. If you can please post a review; what worked/what didn't or you preferred it when I hadn't updated the story…**


	15. Wounds

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 15 – as I've said before, no Ray in this story except as a mention in passing. **

**Again with the cases and background details….**

* * *

"_What wound did ever heal but by degrees?"_

_William Shakespeare_

**September 2010**

"Need your John Hancock, Ducky." Tony stood in Autopsy, holding a sheaf of papers. "Plus any answers on the night-club vic." He indicated the latest recipient of Ducky's singular brand of hospitality. "If you've got them."

Ducky was in the final stages of the procedure. "Questions first, Anthony." He laid down an instrument on the tray and held up his gloved hands. "Whilst I wash up." He moved across to the sink. "Is Gibbs interrogating the pilot now?"

"Just finished." Tony leaned against a different slab – at least the body on this one was bagged. "Wants to know if his story holds."

Removing his gown, disposing of it and the other protective equipment, "And what exactly is his story?"

"Two guys, one girl – the usual." Tony grinned. "Flyboy reckons this guy was wearing beer goggles; didn't like the fact the girl said no to him, yes to someone else." Pushing himself up, he walked over to the desk. "It got physical and punch-drunk-love here tripped."

Ducky discarded his gloves and began washing his hands. "Blunt Force Trauma is, undoubtedly the cause of our friend's untimely demise." - Now on the drying cycle. "Whether his skull was assisted in its collision with the fire hydrant, is rather more difficult to ascertain."

Tony placed the documents on Ducky's desk and raised an appealing eyebrow. "Intoxicated?" Returning in possession of a 'we-don't-really-know-yet', for his Boss, was not an ideal outcome – new information would lend an air of respectability to his self-imposed errand.

Ducky admonished firmly. "We won't know his blood alcohol, for certain, until the toxicology analysis is complete." Shaking his head with a trace of exasperation, "You know, for a former sniper, he is not always awfully patient, is he?"

He walked over to the desk and picked up Tony's folder. "Now then, what do we have here?" He studied Tony who was pacing around the room.

"It's additional background on that Quantico shooting, a couple of weeks ago." He reached the limit of his route, swung around and started back. "Where's the Gremlin?"

The M.E. smiled to himself. This was Team Gibbs' variation on the 'door knob' axiom of behavior. The idea people will delay until the last possible moment – until their hand is on the door knob - before asking an embarrassing question, or giving bad news or starting a difficult conversation. Over the years, he had noticed all the team-members would manufacture an excuse to visit his 'pond' whenever they required a non work-related chat. All, that is, with the exception of Gibbs; if he wanted to talk, he just came down and talked. Tony needn't have come in person to check on the autopsy; the update could have been obtained with a quick 'phone call. The paperwork was decidedly not urgent; there were more pressing cases clamoring for Tony's time and attention. The restless motion and queried whereabouts of Ducky's assistant were also clues. Tony must be seeking advice.

"I sent Mr. Palmer home early." Ducky pulled out his pen. "He has an examination tomorrow." He watched Tony complete another distracted circuit. "Anthony, I believe the sun sufficiently close to the yardarm to satisfy propriety." He waved his hand at the top drawer. "Why don't you join me in a dram whilst I peruse these papers of yours?"

Tony did want to talk to Ducky. He had been debating the strategy ever since Ziva's assault on the equipment. A cautious opening move to establish its seriousness and possible remedies. Ducky was trained, he was one of them and he knew Ziva – he would be able to provide helpful insight. Unfortunately, Tony hadn't yet figured out how he might introduce the topic of her meltdown into a casual conversation. Without it sounding alarmist, odd or that he was suspiciously well-informed about her - on more than a partnership level.

"No thanks, Ducky." Tony halted. "I've gotta get upstairs and see…." – Thinking, leaving the pressing engagement anonymous.

He fleetingly hoped he might catch Ziva before she left. He knew it was a long shot. She had made the suggestion to Gibbs of a return to the nightclub; an effort to locate any additional eye witnesses. She could complete the task on the way home. This arrangement pointedly omitted any possibility of Tony accompanying Ziva. Tony wondered if Ziva was shutting him out. Although, the recent case-load had been beyond frenetic; bodies dropping like flies, drug busts, and a missing child. The entire U.S. Navy and Marine Corp. had, apparently, decided to go on a concerted crime spree. For the past few days, work hours were long and it had seemed like each team member was permanently in three separate places at once. There had been no chance of much time with Ziva; and virtually nil time alone. Certainly not long enough to instigate a discussion or embark upon further progress. Frustratingly, their relationship had entered a curious state of stasis.

Tony stood still – undecided. Ducky, ahead of him, knew he would yield, and was already pouring. "How is Ziva?"

He handed Tony the glass and sat down at his desk. It was, of course, theoretically possible for Tony to have another subject on his mind; it was also highly improbable.

"Fine as far as I know." Momentarily, Tony was taken aback by Ducky so accurately supplying his opening – so immediately. He automatically deflected. "She's good, I think."

Then he glanced at Ducky. His conversation was involuntarily started, he might as well proceed. Walking over, Tony wearily took the other chair. "She shot a generator, Ducky."

Ducky tapped his glass against Tony's, took a sip. "I see." He absorbed the grave look and worried voice. "And did she say why?"

"Said it reminded her of Somalia…." The unruffled inquiry was not quite the reaction Tony was expecting. "….said the noise threw her." - Matter-of-factly repeating Ziva's description. "Triggered a memory or something, I guess."

"May I ask when this took place?" Ducky assembled all the edge pieces before commencing a jig-saw puzzle.

"Last week when we went to the Juárez property." Tony sighed.

"What happened when she fired?" Ducky methodically searched for a corner piece.

"She was startled, armed and she's Zee-vah." – Grinning briefly. "McGee and I didn't see it, only the moments afterwards." The strained expression returned to Tony's face.

"How did Ziva appear?" Clearly the aftermath was Tony's main area of alarm.

"She was kinda dazed for a couple of seconds – like, like it was a flashback." Ducky waited for Tony to elaborate.

Consulting Ducky had seemed like a sensible option. Nevertheless, as Tony recalled those seconds of dense, silent stress when Ziva's gun was targeted at him, he questioned the judgment. Her trembling hands, the lost, scared look on her face were even more ominous upon reflection. McGee had been heroically passive – never once asking about Ziva's behavior – despite being obviously freaked out by the incident. Now Ducky knew half the story, it was too late to renege on the resolution.

"When I got nearer, Zee-vah aimed her gun at me….only for a second or so." - As if a stunted time-span would negate the gravity of the event. "Like she didn't recognize me, saw me as a threat…."

He abandoned the description; it was harder to convey the sense than he imagined. Tony didn't want to underplay the matter; at the same time he was reluctant to cast a dramatically unfavorable light on Ziva's status.

Ducky picked up his glass. "Ziva explained her actions to you both?" - Carefully reconstructing the scene.

"No. She stayed over at my place the next night." Wishing Ducky would speed up his process, Tony replied promptly and without thinking.

Realizing how the scenario might sound; "Nothing happened, we just talked." He added defensively. The justification said far more than his original remark; too quick and too unwarranted.

Ducky bowed his head in dispassionate comprehension – although, in reality, it wasn't the vein of appreciation Tony was hoping the postscript would achieve. "She talked to you about Somalia?"

Tony was puzzled. Thus far, Ducky was more interested in the fact Ziva had discussed the occurrence. Whilst it made sense to assess her conscious reasoning, Tony wondered if he hadn't made the rationale and circumstances behind his concern sufficiently apparent.

"Is she OK? I mean…." Tony couldn't bring himself to actually articulate the pertinent question.

"I am very fond of Ziva." Ducky looked directly at Tony. "However, as a principle of professional ethics, not to mention personal morality, I could not, in all conscience, have signed off on her as cleared for duty if there were the slightest uncertainty." – Summarizing his position with a severe, school-masterly reprimand. "For Ziva's well-being and for the safety of others, I would not have made such recommendation, were she not fit."

Suitably chastened, Tony played with his drink for a minute. "She still executed a piece of machinery." – Quietly re-stating the primary need for Ducky's input.

"Yes, it would appear she was ambushed by the ordinary." Ducky resumed his mild tone. "Ziva has remarkable resilience and an utterly rational ability to detach from situations."

He could see Tony wasn't grasping the gist of the argument and enhanced his explanation. "I suspect for cases, or, crime scenes, or, victims and so on, Ziva can prepare herself in advance…."

"So what went wrong?" Tony interrupted; catching up and intrigued by Ducky's angle.

"Everyone has their breaking point, Anthony, even Ziva." There was gentle exasperation at having to draw the conclusion for Tony. "And you hit the nail on the head, my boy; she was startled."

There were a few moments of silence as Ducky formulated the best way to explain his concept and Tony pondered the hopeful logic.

"She has been managing a tremendous amount of pressure - from an horrific ordeal, from complicated events." Here Ducky paused and gave Tony a searching look. "From long-term confusion."

Since Tony didn't offer any comment on his theme, the pathologist continued with a neutral assessment of the case. "Ziva has been attempting to contain and regulate these issues, for the most part, _alone_."

He held his glass up to the light, contemplating the light refracting through the pattern. The office or not, when Ducky drank his Scotch it was from cut-glass crystal. It was if the shafts of rainbows provided an illustration for his lecture.

"Some external manifestation of a struggle to reconcile the disparate tensions is to be expected." He lowered the glass. "One might even view it as a positive."

Tony listened with a slightly dubious expression.

"Ziva may have been rigorously taught to repress her emotions - from childhood really." Ducky tutted disapprovingly." Nevertheless she is human; internalizing will only ever work as a temporary measure."

"She has bad nightmares…sometimes, I think." Tony decided to expand his contribution. "Well, I witnessed a tough one and I'm pretty sure it wasn't the first, 'cause she didn't seem surprised."

If Ziva's occasionally erratic episodes could be construed as a good sign, there was no harm in revealing other background knowledge.

"In Paris, there was a booking error and we had to share a room." Tony noticed Ducky's questioning glance. "She was embarrassed and ignored it….like she didn't want anyone to know." He deliberately left out the shared bed.

"I think darkness is…kinda tricky." Being more forthcoming was one thing; Tony wasn't about to tell anyone – not even Ducky - Ziva was scared of the dark. "Or it seemed maybe it was - in Paris, anyway." Lest his participation began to imply he'd spent an inordinate number of nights with Ziva. Once again, the codicil produced the opposite effect on Ducky's perspective than the one Tony envisaged.

"Mmn." Ducky mused. "Those are all perfectly standard in such cases; reasonable and perhaps somewhat healthy." He reiterated his point. "Nothing in terms of repercussions would be more disturbing. There must be an outlet."

Taking a sip of his drink, Ducky seemed preoccupied – as if making a decision. "Did Ziva say anything else about her captivity?"

"Not really." Tony shook his head, hesitating.

There was a vague sense of disloyalty in disclosing this element to a third party. "Just that she was angry, frightened….numb." Casually recounting Ziva's depiction, Tony gave the impression he considered them as nothing out of the ordinary.

However, the catalogue provoked marked interest from Ducky. He produced his keys. Unlocking a drawer in the desk, he rifled through the contents and pulled out a file. "I want to show you something." To Tony's consternation, Ducky handed him the dossier. "Jethro asked me to conduct an evaluation after the Cryer investigation."

The contents were copies of transcripts from Ziva's Psych. Sessions; annotated in red ink by Ducky with his thoughts and opinions. The scribble categorically authenticated the bias that doctors have appalling handwriting – resembling jottings which could be associated with a possessed, disembodied hand. Tony scanned the first couple of pages, before flipping the folder closed and tossing it onto the desk. If Ziva wanted him to know, she would tell him about it – and he would listen. He wouldn't find out because he'd been granted access to a sneak-peek at confidential records. He could give her that freedom. In a small way, Tony would return control over the matter to Ziva.

"Very precise aren't they?" Ducky noted the inherent integrity behind Tony's gesture. "Very thorough, highly detailed: names, number of combatants, types of armaments." - Giving Tony a rueful smile "even appraisals and descriptions of interrogation techniques employed."

Tony nodded in agreement – perplexed by the commentary. Ducky was drifting, once more, away from Tony's view of the problem – losing him in the process. In actual fact, Ducky was following two separate agendas. Ziva's mental welfare was one topic; one he had previously addressed to his standards of satisfaction. However, Tony's information was supplying further pieces for completion of another picture; which was the underlying, more vital area deserving his attention.

Ducky patted the folder. "Do you notice anything else about them?"

This was part of Ducky's method. Wherever possible, he encouraged his audience to forge the links. It served as a system of checks and balance for his deductions. Also, it allowed him entry to their position – without resorting to direct or leading questions. Messing with their heads a little, on the way, was acceptable if it aided this endeavor. Ducky was profiling Tony's actions and demeanor - in addition to those of Ziva.

"It's impersonal?" - Hazarding a guess; Tony wasn't sure in which direction Ducky was headed.

"Quite so." - Pleased with his pupil. "Pages and pages with an absolute absence of the emotional fall-out: unless she is pushed - in which case she gives text book responses."

Ducky scrutinized Tony. "I have tried. Jethro made some headway." He rested his fingers on the file. "However, Ziva has expressed how she felt, how the impacts have affected her to no-one." There was a calculated pause for effect. "No-one but you, Anthony."

Tony shrugged, suddenly wary; downplaying his involvement. "So Zee-vah's OK because she talking to someone?" - Taking refuge himself in the impersonal.

He was aware the discussion was becoming centered upon the depth of their entanglement. The importance of what Ziva had said during their interactions and why she'd said it to Tony.

Ducky wasn't fooled by the dodge. "Well, that's one way of interpreting the development. The greater significance is revealed if one narrows the context somewhat." It was a loaded suggestion.

"Guess I was just in the right place, at the right time." Tony declined the invitation.

Ducky contemplated Tony's stance. "It is likely something breached and weakened her defense mechanism. No doubt you are aware she did not press charges against Lieutenant Miller?" – Temporarily letting him off the hook with a surrogate lure.

"Yeah." None of the team had been surprised by - or unsupportive of - Ziva's choice to release Miller without charge. She had diligently researched financial aid and the availability of counseling services – tailoring the help to his individual needs. Gibbs had even presented her findings to Miller. The notion of charity negated by one Marine assisting another: Semper Fi in operation.

"She felt empathy with him. Not in the Stockholm Syndrome sense." Ducky refined his pronouncement. "I believe she recognized his distress."

With the appearance of a seemingly unrelated avenue, Tony dropped his guard. "Other way 'round Ducky." – Unconsciously correcting Ducky's assumption.

Having re-created his opening, Ducky pressed. "I'm not entirely certain I understand your point?"

Tony realized he'd omitted Ziva's anxieties over her conduct when filling in the blanks for Ducky. "Miller told her she was like him." He looked at Ducky. "Zee-vah believes him."

"Ah." Comprehension dawned. "Now that is very relevant." From anyone else the remark would have been critical, impatient. From Ducky it was quietly satisfied. "You have opened the inter-connected doors in her mind."

Tony tensed inwardly; they had reverted to motivations and feelings again. "She was upset; it could just have easily been Tim." He tried to steer away from the focus on his particular access with an unconvincing, faintly ridiculous claim.

"Perhaps; although I would infer, from what you have told me, you are doing yourself a disservice." Ducky's tone slipped back into that of the annoyed Latin teacher. "Denial is neither a very constructive nor profitable position."

"Maybe she's just tired of carrying it around with her?" Tony acknowledged the rebuke grudgingly. "Of being graded on what happened before?"

"And did she tell you that also?" – Resuming the interview on his intended route.

"Yeah, kinda." Tony took a drink, thinking of Ziva's reference to her co-workers' viewpoints. "Like it's damaged her."

"Or perhaps her most crucial concern could be that you understand?" Ducky returned the folder to his drawer. "That you do not view her within such a framework?"

He had lined up the final pieces – all Tony had to do was slot them into place.

Tony remained silent; the question was way too leading. His delay supplied Ducky's confirmation anyway.

"Of course, it would be myopic not to discern why Ziva confided in you." Ducky refused to be deterred. "Or, indeed, why you are so worried about Ziva."

Ducky took off his glasses. "And I am not blind." - Adding with a deliberate smile as he began cleaning the lenses - "At least, not quite yet."

Like McGee and virtually everyone else, Tony and Ziva's volatile, magnetic exchanges had led him – years ago – to the inevitable conclusion. Like McGee he was firmly of the mind, both of them would be much happier - and the NCIS world more peaceful - once the charade ended. Unlike McGee, Ducky was exceptionally well-qualified to administer a subtle nudge in the right direction. Since Tony was trying to sidestep, Ducky opted for an alternative, more overt, approach.

"You two care very deeply for one another, you always have." It was a direct, though, compassionate accusation.

Surprised, Tony looked quickly at Ducky – he hadn't factored in this aspect of Ducky's talents. "She's my partner." The habitual excuse sprang readily into use.

Replacing his glasses the pathologist sat back and clasped his hands together – the very image of affable wisdom. "I am very well aware of the bonds which exist in partnerships of all kinds." He chided gently. "And, I am more than capable of distinguishing the nuances and differences in such relationships."

"Yeah, but Zee-vah and I've probably dealt with some crazier shit than most of those partnerships." Tony uncomfortably conceded; citing mitigating circumstances.

Ducky didn't accept his plea-bargain. "Much of which might have been avoided were the nature of your relationship purely professional." The tone of his voice posed the rhetorical inquiry. "I gather your _talk_ holds rather more meaning than merely the details of Ziva's experiences?"

Tony cocked his head in resigned appreciation of the intuitive call. Ducky had already ruled out rejecting his deductions plus he had dropped the 'R-bomb' with no disguise in his observations. He didn't mean colleagues or friendships – no matter how close. Tony remembered the last occasion he'd come to talk with Ducky about Ziva. That conversation had ended abruptly when Ducky characterized Tony's worry as 'personal, not professional.' Instead of seizing the opportunity to discover more, Tony had retreated. 'It's not what you think' a reclassification of his feelings originating from a desire to persuade himself – in addition to Ducky. Tony preferred to obtain video feed of the bombing and fit Rivkin's role and influence into the puzzle without outside help; unnecessarily re-watching the clip multiple times. Simultaneously bothered by Ziva's – previously unknown to Tony - close brush with death and Michael Rivkin's proprietary attitude.

"We sorta straightened things out a little, I guess." His sheepish grin was a combination of tacit admittance and an apology for all the evasive answers.

"A most encouraging advance." Ducky beamed approval.

Tony thought for a couple of minutes. He wondered how history might have turned out if he hadn't rebuffed Ducky's premise two years ago – or the outcome if Ducky had pursued the source of Tony's disquiet.

"Except I think Zee-vah's….I don't know; avoiding me, maybe." He sighed. "If telling me this stuff is such a big deal for her, why would she do that?"

"She told me once; the ones who get close die." He watched as the expected mental re-enactment of Rivkin's shooting played across Tony's features. "After a fashion, one could argue Ziva is protecting you the only way she knows how." Ducky looked at Tony sympathetically.

"That's nuts." Tony laughed cynically at the dilemma from which there was no obvious escape because of mutually conflicting solutions. "I could get hit by a car tomorrow, or take a fucking bullet in the line of duty."

He waved his hand at the body on Ducky's table. "Christ, I could head butt a fire hydrant…." Tony stopped abruptly as he recognized the redundancy of listing causes of death to a Medical Examiner.

"Yet there is a cohesive pattern if one considers the sequence." Ducky outlined the rationale. "Lieutenant Miller, quite accidentally, brought some of Ziva's fears to the surface. Furthermore, she almost fulfilled her own prophecy. Not only might you have died but it would have been by her hand."

"Now she has permitted you even closer which must be exceedingly unsettling." Tony grimaced as the unwelcome explanation continued. The reasoning was inconsequential – the potential effects were depressingly insurmountable. Ducky sought to ease Tony's frustration. "However, the turmoil stirred by the recent kidnap will settle. Stability, an end to the unknown acts as a counter-balance."

Tony looked speculatively at Ducky. "What if it wasn't an isolated incident?" – Dreading one of the possible answers but cognizant there was no other option but to thoroughly investigate the subject.

"There's no evidence to believe it wouldn't be, is there?" Ducky checked Tony's veracity and reassured with a single sentence. "One major episode in nearly two years is hardly excessive – especially upon extensive examination of the facts."

"So Zee-vah'll be OK if I stay alive?" Tony grinned in relief – a little more optimistic. "Suits me."

Ducky reciprocated the joke. "You might take pains to ensure she's not subjected to captivity for a while." – Adding with friendly seriousness. "I think you will both be perfectly fine."

Leaning forward, Tony cradled his drink with two hands. There was another, very delicate, area he was trying to figure out. He was forced to admit Ducky's analysis had been productive. It was now just a question of how much he should divulge. Tony weighed resurrecting an earlier idea of Ducky's which had seemed on target. Ziva had tried to hide the healing injuries to her back from him. She had tried to prevent him discovering the nightmares and had mentioned what he might think - amongst other resistance.

Tony shifted uneasily in his seat. "If she's worried about reactions….my reaction," – Guardedly clarifying his objective. "Is it possible Zee-vah might….uh." - Clearing his throat. "Not sure if she's comfortable with…."

Ducky brought the awkward statement to a close. "I thought you said nothing happened?" With raised eyebrows and a streak of wryly amused reproach.

"It didn't." Tony protested his innocence instantly. "It nearly did." He confessed; repeating the error of the past would be foolish.

Tony was extremely unwilling to raise the notion; after all, his relationship with Ziva was still theoretical, not practical. Nevertheless, the encounter had been one move away from becoming reality and Ducky may help to uncover Ziva's state of mind.

"It could've: only she seemed….tense." It was a vague definition. Years of law enforcement experience dictated he knew the post-trauma responses of victims were varied and complex. Often appearing illogical, not necessarily related to the types of abuse suffered: other times easily identified and understandable. The distinctly mixed signals meant Tony wasn't sure exactly what Ziva was fighting during that charged moment in the bathroom.

"Oh, it's not a sexual issue, Anthony." Ducky's clinical diagnosis dispelled Tony's perception of the problem. "It is conceivable there maybe a little residual, misplaced anxiety, I suppose." The reprieve was short-lived. "You know as well as I do Ziva has dated casually. She has slept with at least one man in recent months."

"Thanks for sharing that Ducky." Tony commented sourly, taking a big swallow of Scotch.

Ducky carried on, ignoring the flash of jealousy. "Rather, I believe it to be an issue of intimacy."

Tony frowned, trying to grasp the distinction. At the risk of condemning himself as shallow the two words were, essentially, interchangeable in his world.

"Think of it as a concussion." – Smiling at Tony's apparent confusion. "There are different types of concussion. Some heal quickly, some require time and some never heal entirely." Ducky slipped into medical mode enthusiastically. "There is no cure, only time."

Tony tensed again. This was worse - now the conversation was veering into the realm of brain damage.

"Indeed there are reports and studies in some hospitals…." Ducky suddenly noticed Tony wasn't sharing his level of interest and relented. "It would not be inaccurate to postulate that Ziva has suffered an emotional concussion."

He cut short his enthusiastic appreciation for the fascinating mystery of cerebral function.

"The last time Ziva was intimately associated with anyone." Ducky emphasized his next phrase. "One should say, emotionally attached to anyone was with Officer Rivkin."

Waiting for Tony to digest the implication - "That ended with dreadful consequences; for others - and for Ziva. Her judgment was erroneous, her trust was betrayed." Briefly Ducky glanced toward the autopsy table where Rivkins's body had lain. "Really, it is ironic. If you weren't so close to her, it would be easier."

Ducky returned his gaze to Tony. "She has been trained – all her life – to seek disengagement. Emotional solitude and self-reliance are paramount."

Not for the first time, Tony reflected bitterly on just how destructive to her existence the men in Ziva's life had proved. It started with her father; who used his daughter to create his own personal super-soldier. Next was Ari; the psycho half-brother who lied to gain a pathway for Gibbs' execution. There was Ben-Gidon; who left Ziva to single-handedly save his ass and career with a near-suicidal mission to Saleem's camp. His gratitude for her efforts was displayed by framing her for Cryer's murder. Not forgetting Eschel; the agent from Paris who landed her on the F.B.I's Most Wanted list to please his Iranian spy girlfriend. And, to Tony's extra chagrin refocused Eli David's personal attention on himself. Tony even wondered if Shmuel Rubenstein had exhibited any decency – or if one punch from the eight-year-old Ziva had caused him to abandon her too.

"Connection with others is dangerous. For someone like that the ramifications are enormous. And, alas, Officer Rivkin proved the rule." He waited to see if Tony would respond, when he didn't Ducky remarked. "Her experience of relationships; be they romantic, career or family, has undoubtedly left a certain amount of scarring."

Tony didn't need enlightening on the extent of the damage. Each of them had used and exploited Ziva – manipulating her loyalties, abusing her trust; discarding her once her usefulness was expended. Reinforcing the message Ziva's value was as a means to an end. All carelessly placing her in danger or deceiving her: or supplying some other warped combination of harms. It was a field crowded with contenders. However, in Tony's opinion, Michael Rivkin was the clear winner of the award for Bastard-in-Chief. Solely because, in addition to the customary sins, Rivkin made Ziva believe she was loved – he had broken her heart.

He suppressed anger at the injustice and dragged his thoughts back to the current situation. "OK then, what am I supposed to do?"

"Well, it's quite simple really. My counsel would be to _do_ nothing." Ducky finished his drink as Tony stared at him in amazement.

He stood up, rubbing the back of his neck. "Seriously?" - A mixture of the incredulous and the stunned. "Nothing?"

Tony was unable to believe he'd sought help, revealed Ziva's troubles; basically permitted Ducky to assume they were romantically involved. Not to mention he would be forced to avoid Gibbs for a few hours – Tony was supposed to be working, not having a cocktail. Only to be advised to take no action.

"Nothing. Remember the concussion." Ducky reminded him, patiently. "Ziva is healing; from being held prisoner, more importantly from a disastrous liaison. She is expecting you to exploit the advantage you hold over her. Having trusted you with her emotions, the pattern dictates you will hurt her – betray that trust."

He rose from his chair, restoring the Glenfiddich bottle to its resting place in the top drawer. "Eventually, the security derived from the realization you do not fit the profile will lead her to take the next step."

Ducky was very firm as he imparted the next instruction. "You must allow Ziva to make that choice, on her terms."

Tony wondered how long 'eventually' entailed. Reaching the exit, he half turned. Another nagging worry had suddenly become apparent. If Gibbs sometimes assumed the role of father-figure, then Ducky would assuredly be the grandfather. Tony didn't relish the prospect of any inter-generational conferences taking place. "Um, Ducky, about this…?"

"I must conclude our private psychological consultation here." Ducky correctly read the intention behind the near-literal 'doorknob' inquiry. And he genially invoked confidentiality with the interruption. "I have an appointment with the King of Persia later tonight." His voice tinged with a flourish of school-boyish excitement. "Xerxes."

Pushing open the double doors with his shoulder, Tony grinned mischievously. "I'm impressed, Ducky - never figured you for a '300' kinda guy."

Ducky shook his head in profound disappointment. "Handel's opera, Anthony."

* * *

**A huge thank you to everyone who has posted a review: also to all those who have me on their alert list. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me if it worked, if it was boring or anything else really…**


	16. No Harm

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 16 – this may be a wee bit fluffy around the edges– with luck in a good way - after all that angst. **

**For the purists, I've tinkered with canon a tiny bit. Swap Short Fuse with Royals & Loyals in order - just for timing. And, because it's fanfic., I can! **

**The usual for background details….**

* * *

"_First, do no harm."_

_Hippocrates_

**October 2010**

From McGee's perspective, their relationship was in an odd state of suspended animation. To begin with he wondered - rather hopefully - if Tony and Ziva had slept together. An examination of the evidence quickly torpedoed that notion. Tony wasn't exhibiting a greater amount of self-satisfaction than usual. Which McGee believed would happen if the senior agent had been successful in his pursuit. And surely Ziva would betray some sort of change if the long-brewing tryst had occurred. Then McGee wondered if perhaps all the preceding sound and fury did, indeed, signify nothing - if all the build-up had fizzled out.

"I still don't buy it." Tony complained; watching Sgt. Heather Dempsey walk confidently toward the elevator. "I mean, c'mon, it's a total violation of the AA scale."

McGee was tracking cell phones in the area for the night of the shooting. "She's an explosives expert Tony." He waited until the doors closed before answering. "I don't think she's an alcoholic and there's nothing in her file about drink-related problems."

"The Attractiveness/Accessibility Scale, McCelibate." Tony looked over at him in disapproving disbelief. "Don't you _ever_ get laid?"

McGee ignored the good-natured insult. In reality, though they were both unattached, it was far likelier he'd had sex more recently than Tony. McGee was keenly aware the only woman Tony wanted to sleep with these days was Ziva. McGee had improved vastly when it came to his ability in repelling Tony's mocking. Today he was willing to extend toleration because the object of Tony's unfulfilled desires was currently in Vance's office. The final findings of the internal review into the generator incident had been returned. No-one expected any ramifications. Nevertheless, if providing Tony with a distraction meant he wouldn't anxiously glance to the upper level every couple of minutes, McGee felt taking the bait was worth the sacrifice.

He sighed patiently. "I know I really don't want to know this, but what's the AA scale?"

"It's the ratio between hotness and the probability of nailing said attractive person based on their score." Tony grinned wickedly as he outlined the mildly offensive reasoning of a former frat-boy. "You're good with numbers - this should be your thing."

He stood up, opening a drawer in the filing cabinet. "So that girl down in Tech. Support, what's her name again?" - Snapping his fingers. "The blonde chick…."

McGee supplied the name with resignation. "Isabella."

"Isabella. She's single, right?" Tony already knew her status. "So she's accessible plus hot which makes her a positive."

He tried to think of a suitably unappealing opposite. "And Dolores Bromstead from H.R. is high on the accessibility curve but unfortunately she's a hotness zero." Tony feigned checking his mental arithmetic. "And that isn't a positive."

"If you'd only ask the blonde chick…." – Pulling out some papers whilst he continued the flippant philosophy.

"Isabella." McGee knew why Tony had chosen this particular girl for his example. She was very pretty and very sweet. And she was always very pleased to see McGee – who'd been cautiously thinking of asking her out following his return from Canada. Tony never missed an opportunity to raise the subject - in a sometimes annoying bid of encouragement.

"Isabella. If you'd ask her on a date, then she'd be a double positive and you'd definitely get…."

"Dolores has been very sweet to you since receiving her gift." Ziva interrupted reproachfully; standing directly behind him. "I think she has a crush on you Tony."

She joined the conversation with a teasing remark. His attention temporarily diverted, Tony had missed her reappearance in the bull-pen. As Tony turned around, it was obvious from his expression of discomfit he didn't know how much Ziva had overheard.

He studied her with a searching look. "Right, and if I come home to any bunnies boiling in the kitchen, I'm blaming you." – Trying to gauge how the conference with Vance had unfolded. If Ziva's light-hearted demeanor was genuine: or if it was disguising worry.

"You were her Secret Santa." She erroneously corrected his memory. "It was Christmas not Easter."

"Jesus." Tony rolled his eyes and decided against explanation of yet another missed movie reference. "My point is; for the old married guy, G.I. Jane should have an accessibility value of zero."

The somewhat less-than-flattering attitude toward prospective girlfriends was swiftly hidden behind an insightful assessment of their suspects. Although Tony's instinct on the case might be valid; he wished he'd been a little more circumspect in articulating the idea.

"Does every woman have an AA rating?" Ziva's playful smile answered Tony's unspoken question about her mood. "We have a similar method for judging men's...capabilities."

She was not in the slightest bit fazed by his cavalier theory. Her casual, premeditated pause charged the inquiry; and a sudden spark in the ether definitively blew McGee's second guess out of the water.

Tony's shook his head. "Oh no, I'm not falling for that one."

Ziva was still in front of him, resting one hand on the corner of his desk. "What one Tony?"

"There's a special contingency equation for ninjas." Tony's teasing comment accepted her dare. "It's the AAD ratio."

He moved around Ziva. It was not so much an effort to escape - more like he was circling her. She pivoted in response. Their motion resembled a dance without touching; reflecting the concentric pattern of the verbal waltz. They couldn't possibly be – physically - any closer without actual contact.

"And what does the 'D' stand for?" – Tilting her head with a look of complete innocence. "Delightful? Divine? Desi….?"

She knew the word's identity would be undoubtedly along more robust and probably martial lines.

Tony was thoroughly entertained by the exchange.

"It doesn't matter, Mrs. Webster." – Cutting off the list. "The 'D' automatically cancels out any other number so I can't calculate your AA rating."

His reply was a jokingly sincere apology - as though she'd asked him for an appraisal of some other, serious, sort of quality.

"Oh I see." Ziva affected disappointment – deriving an equal amount of pleasure from the sparring. "Perhaps I should have asked Maj. Malloy's opinion of my ratio?" - Nudging the thermostat higher.

A few days previously she had taken advantage of the M.I. 6 operative's interest – much to Tony's amusement. They gained permission to board H.M.S. Sparrowhawk by her employment of sex appeal.

"Yeah right Zee-vah, 'cause the Brits are world famous for being great lovers." There was tiny hint of feeling in the derogatory remark. "Casanova, on the other hand, was Italian." Tony's grin was outrageous as he made the deliberately unsubtle comparison.

Ziva punctured the analogy in typically clinical fashion. "Casanova died of a sexually transmitted disease, Tony." - Raising a victorious eyebrow in the belief she'd just won the contest.

"So no-one's perfect." He shrugged. "And besides I can think of worse ways to acquire a fatal illness." - The unashamed, easy smile anticipating escalation in the next round of the game.

"And I'll find one for you, DiNozzo, if you don't have an update." Gibbs' curt interjection announced his arrival and a return to mundane affairs.

McGee was baffled. The debate was conducted with the full range of intensely focused looks, fizzing banter - and a conspicuous sexual sub-text. In fact, it was more capitalized and bold than sub. However, it was also clear the fundamental chemical composition had been refined. The discussion involved the usual collision of disparate temperaments and competition – but it was just those components. There were no pre-emptive strikes against hurt; no spite and no simmering undercurrent of unresolved issues. No sense Tony and Ziva were simultaneously exploring several separate, layered arguments – with all the attendant potential for mistakes and misunderstandings which would lead to further strife. What had happened to reconstitute their formula was unknown; probably something to do with the recent drama. In the intervening period, apparently they had reached some level of concord. Beyond that, McGee knew nothing more. He was distinctly unsettled by the shift.

* * *

"Do you want a ride to the field tomorrow?" Tony made the offer to break the silence as they drove back from apprehending Dempsey and her brother's assailant.

Gibbs and McGee had the Bomb. Tech. and were waiting for Metro P.D. to collect Abbott – his crime was not within the jurisdiction of NCIS.

"No, thank you." Ziva's car was in the shop. "McGee is bringing me."

The answer was dispiriting. In the couple of weeks after Ziva spent the night on Tony's sofa, they had been pre-occupied with work priorities. Essentially, this journey was the only occasion they had been alone together for any substantial period of time. It was hard for Tony not to view her response as confirmation she was purposefully creating distance. He was beginning to suspect Ziva was opting for very close friendship. It would be predictable, tractable and - most significantly - safe. Their turbulent history laid to rest and their future limited to inert rapport. The earlier, flirtatious discussion dissipated that worry to a degree. Tony was conscious the mysterious fusion of ingredients - sexual attraction, personality clash and the emotional bond – had manifested itself. More importantly, in contrast to many of their encounters in recent years – both the serious and the superficial - it had been genuinely enjoyable. Nevertheless, currently, Ziva seemed willing to engage only at the office and rarely strayed from practicalities or case details. Communication had settled into passive understanding and pleasantries. Mindful of Ducky's advice, Tony didn't push – respecting her withdrawal. And, in the process, he discovered that doing nothing was a surprisingly wearing strategy.

He moved away from social interaction, reverting to job-related areas. "Did you know the bomb was a fake before she told us?"

The arrests today were the first time Tony had seen Ziva with her weapon drawn since firing on the generator. In addition she had been faced, briefly, with the possibility of defusing a bomb. Discreetly watching her, he had noticed no problems. She'd simply waited until Gibbs' indicated she could lower her gun and collectedly approached the hazard of dealing with a motion sensitive device.

"No. Without a thorough, close-up inspection, it is difficult to assess explosives." Ziva glanced at him, puzzled. "Are you not going to ask me about my meeting with Director Vance?"

Despite his efforts at preserving a neutral atmosphere between them, Ziva had detected the modification in Tony's approach. Normally, he would have been pestering her, with unrelenting determination, for information – starting the minute she emerged from Vance's office. Unaware of Ducky's input, she linked the change with the events at Tony's apartment.

"Figured you'd talk about it, if you wanted me to know." It was a relaxed, not quite disinterested statement. For Ziva, his excuse was another uncharacteristic display. She was confused by his unnatural lack of curiosity.

"So what did he say?" Ziva had raised the issue; Tony decided to acknowledge the move.

"The incident has been reviewed and the investigation closed." She waited for Tony to make a comment – with nothing forthcoming, she eventually added. "No further action will be required."

"Good." Tony nodded approval.

Ziva turned her head; staring out of the window. "I wondered if I ought to give the Director a complete explanation."

"Why?" – Concentrating on traffic, Tony tried to keep the question noncommittal. And subdue a sense of alarm that Ziva was contemplating an astonishingly stupid move.

"Because of what happened." Still staring away from Tony; her voice was flat and remote. "If I am….The fall-out would be his responsibility, if there were to be a recurrence."

"That's not likely." Tony calmly refuted the chance of an encore performance.

This provoked a touch of frustration which replaced the disengaged air. "How do you know?" She snapped, looking at him irritably. "You cannot be certain, Tony."

"No, you're right." A little sarcasm entered his tone. "I don't know for sure - maybe that's why I said unlikely."

He made an impatient gesture with his hand at a driver who'd cut him up. Mostly to relieve his annoyance at the direction in which the conversation was headed. Glancing across at Ziva, he noticed her gaze had shifted from the window. She was looking forward. A tiny re-adjustment denoting Ziva was, perhaps, connecting.

"Do you still have nightmares?" Tony refocused on reassurance with the sympathetic inquiry.

Ziva faced him directly – taken aback. He had never mentioned the night in Paris before – unless she initiated the reference. The unexpectedness felt as though Tony had made a secret suddenly public. Ziva attempted to place the development in context with regard to the long, candid – for Ziva anyway – exposure of her experience. And Tony's seemingly altered behavior toward her; subsequent to the dissection.

"Yes." She admitted warily. "Not very often; the last one was in July." Unsure of Tony's angle, Ziva struck a protective position of insignificance. "They happen now only if I am unduly stressed."

Tony experienced a flash of satisfaction. The intense and distressing subject matter that night notwithstanding, she didn't have a nightmare whilst in his apartment. He seized the opening. "Exactly; and the shooting is the same thing…."

Ziva interrupted him. "I was not stressed." Technically, this was true. On a routine check of a property there were no attacks, no victims, nor any other threats.

At a stop-light, he was able to make eye contact briefly. "Yeah you were." He employed Ducky's rationale with a disarming smile. "You'd just got done with what's becoming your annual kidnap event."

Ziva met his gaze. "I was not harmed." – Adding the totally off-topic, prosaic prompt. "You have a green." Because she would have been across the intersection the second immediately prior to the change in the other set of lights.

Tony grinned at her back-seat-driving. "No, but maybe Miller got inside your head a little too much?"

"He is not dangerous." Ziva was defending her captor again. Unconsciously, she was holding onto the nonlinear logic that if Miller could be redeemed then maybe she could be too.

Tony missed the buried motive.

"Christ, I didn't say he was, Zee-vah." - Wanting to re-establish a measure of proportion with regard to the man's actions. "It's just you seem to forget the guy's kinda considering full membership in the bat-shit crazy club."

He emphasized the next remark. "And you're not."

Ziva absorbed Tony's argument for a few moments. "This can be a stressful job sometimes." Although there was no denying the truth of her statement, Tony was relieved by Ziva's return to her particular circumstances.

On occasion the human intellect can become remarkably disconnected from speech function; despite both being housed within the same brain. Tony's thought process was centered upon Ducky's analysis. The aim was to convey his optimistic conclusions – without revealing their origins. And it was concurrent with fielding Ziva's responses and negotiating the Beltway during rush-hour at the end of a long day. Something was doomed to fail.

"Sometimes it is." He sighed in agreement as the cars ground to a gridlocked halt again. "So do you really think Ducky would've signed off if he didn't think you could cope?"

He regretted the comment within seconds.

"But Ducky does not know about the generator, Tony." Ziva countered and then became cognizant of Tony's mood and a disturbing notion took shape. "Does he?"

Tony's nanosecond of silence was, in reality, the only substantiation needed.

"Does he?" Her second query was laden with acrimonious accusation.

"Yeah, he does." – Hesitant in making his confession. "I talked to Ducky."

Tony was internally raging at himself for the slip. However, he had lied to her once before with near-fatal consequences – and he was determined not to repeat the mistake.

The tension level in the vehicle scorched into the dangerous zone.

"Pull over and stop the car." Ziva's bitter, furious command highlighted shock and betrayal; compounded by her already unsettled perception of Tony's manner.

Tony reciprocated with equal, though rationally restrained, anger. "No." Fortunately, he was one step ahead of her tempestuous impulse. "And don't even fucking think about trying it."

The same intuition - which had enabled Ziva's correct interpretation Tony's off-hand allusion to Ducky - prevented the reflexive flight. She was exceedingly well-acquainted with Tony's personality. The unflinching warning was backed by a reasoned will. When necessary, in fights, Tony would always impose a limit to his patience and Ziva had seldom pushed beyond that boundary. This evening the deadly quiet tone of his voice left her under no illusions and informed her actions.

"You had no right to break my confidence." Although she removed her hand from the button, relinquishing thought of overriding the doors' central locking mechanism, the ire remained undiminished.

"Yes I did. I'm the senior agent." Tony rejected the indignation with a cool reminder of rank.

The tactic was designed to parry her emotion with dispassionate professionalism until he could talk her down.

She was surprised by his reply. "You still had no right." The distressing implication of violated trust drove reiteration of her point.

"Yes I did." He insisted; shooting her a quizzical look. "Are you seriously trying to tell me you wouldn't have done the same if it was me?"

The onus was back on Ziva with an appeal for appreciation of his predicament.

"What did you tell him?" – Regaining control of the initial upset and ignoring the role reversal ploy.

"What I saw happen." The evasion was a desperately needed stretch of the truth. "McGee saw it too, Zee-vah." As Ziva calmed, Tony gently reminded her of their colleague's presence.

It was a risky maneuver – given her stated concern over the opinions of her co-workers. Ducky had implied her greatest fear was how Tony perceived Ziva; fixing that issue could wait until the existing difficulty was resolved. Tony hoped the idea would neutralize Ziva's misguided outrage that he had maliciously disclosed private troubles.

Ziva recognized this dispute was different. For once, they were dealing with a conflict in real time. She conceded this outcome rested largely on the lucky fact Tony had her trapped in a car. The cause of the quarrel was tricky and unpleasant. Nevertheless, the matter was not being deferred or shelved. Moreover, it was being fought solely on its individual merits. No shadows from previous grievances and heartaches loomed over the battle-lines; shrouding the source.

"What did Ducky say?" Her reflections were illustrated by the muted interest.

Tony realized the critical storm had passed. "What I've said. You're fine."

He searched for an appropriate précis. "It was like….like an acute stress reaction." The practical terms were a language with which Ziva could identify.

They drove into the Navy Yard parking lot. "Why did you tell him, Tony?" She looked at him with an expression of quiet disappointment in her eyes.

"Because he's qualified, because I was worried." He shrugged - almost in defeat. "Because you wouldn't believe me."

"I did believe you." Ziva protested unconvincingly. Significantly, they were stationery. Although, Tony had placed the car in park and switched off the ignition – neither of them had left.

There was a faint edge of regret in his answer. "Obviously not enough; otherwise you wouldn't be thinking of telling Vance."

He handed her the keys and opened the door. "Trust goes two ways, Zee-vah." – Walking away and leaving her to secure the vehicle.

Pensively she watched him disappear. And a sudden, disconcerting thought occurred to Ziva. Tony must be as terribly hurt by her doubt of him - as she was by imagined duplicity. There was a reason he was afraid of commitments, of making promises – yet he had never once abandoned her. This increased understanding, when viewed in light of her conduct, left Ziva feeling comforted. It also elicited sad, self-reproach; because she had taken his strength for granted and underestimated his personal insecurities.

* * *

It was an inter-agency baseball match and picnic. The date had been postponed twice. Bad weather and an increased Terror Threat Level intervened; clearly showing both extremes of the unpredictability factor for such arrangements. Today was warm, sunny and this was NCIS versus the F.B.I. In the actual league fixture – taken with headache inducing seriousness by the participants - the Agency was being soundly thrashed by their opponents. Vance blamed the poor performance on the Feds. greater personnel pool. The rest of the staff had been divided into scratch teams, the games slightly less cutthroat in nature – with plenty of beer bottles dotted around the fielding positions. Family members offered vocal support or criticism where applicable; a happy, friendly atmosphere prevailed.

McGee had driven both Ziva and Abby. Initially, there had been a small hang-over of self-consciousness from the night before between Tony and Ziva. It slowly wore off as the day progressed. Ziva had been involved with playing on a very minor level. Naturally competitive, it was a state of affairs she intended to remedy before next summer's season commenced. By the afternoon, tired of sitting still, she enlisted help from the son of a deputy director of the F.B.I. – he was throwing practice pitches.

"Hey Ninja, your stance is wrong." Tony sauntered over. The ever-present invisible tractor beam drawing them together.

Ziva defiantly tipped her chin as she cleanly swatted the ball. "I do not think so."

Tony observed as she hit a few more, before calling to her pitcher. "Put a little heat on the next one."

Nicholas had fallen in love with Ziva over lunch – with all the speed and devotion a fifteen year old boy can muster. She was beautiful, funny and could teach him how to curse – or say I love you – in numerous languages. He had been throwing relatively easy to hit pitches. Completely smitten, and certainly not willing to set her up, Tony's teenage rival glanced questioningly toward Ziva.

She smiled over-confident confirmation of Tony's order. "Go ahead, Nicholas."

Ziva, fooled by the pace, mistimed the swing and the ball flew straight up into the air. Annoyed because Tony was right and to make it worse, he casually caught the ball upon its return to earth.

She offered him the bat. "Very well." The challenging tone was unmistakable. "Show me."

Tony became aware of the merest hint of pressure to the demonstration. Nicholas was a pretty good pitcher and he had already struck Tony out during one of the morning games. And, since he fully intended to be in love with Ziva for at least the next hour, Nicholas was prepared to defend her honor. Tony was amused by the kid's captivation. Still, because he felt the same way plus Ziva was his Ninja, he had every intention of winning the semi-duel. Tony was a reasonable ball player – although football was his great love. The first pitch was an excellent one and Tony elected to let it go. Ziva fleetingly wondered about distracting him. The sense of obligation toward her youthful champion - not to mention aggravating Tony – was overridden. She decided it would be unfair. The second pitch was also good but Tony smacked a glorious hit which sent the ball sailing into the blue sky.

He held out the bat nonchalantly to Ziva with a very satisfied smile. "Not where I meant it to go."

She tilted her head mischievously. "You are not Babe Ruth."

He was both impressed and amazed. "How the hell can you know about a game from 1932 and not have seen 'Fatal Attraction'?"

"It is called reading." The playful smile became a perplexed expression as he stood behind Ziva.

When he wrapped his arms around her, she twisted. "Tony, what are you doing?"

He grinned at her perturbed look. "I'm gonna show you." – Carefully ensuring there was a decent distance between them.

There was an inevitable fierce struggle for control of the bat. Nicholas waited patiently for them to stop and concluded that adults were really very pathetic, weird creatures.

"Zee-vah." Tony's voice was exasperated as she wriggled her shoulders. "Just hold still. Try thinking of the bat like it's a weapon – you'll probably find that helpful."

She laughed. "Really Tony, and who is my target?"

He cocked his head. "That's between you and the ball." - Nodding at Nicholas. "OK."

Against considerable odds the coordinated effort connected with a fairly smooth, hard hit. "That was the Petty Officer who said you were like her mother-in-law - only scarier and not as well-dressed."

After three successes, they missed the next two as a renewed battle broke out over whose hands would go where on the handle. And there was a variation in position; Tony's arms were more tightly around her and Ziva had relaxed into his hold.

"OK Ninja, next culprit." Tony looked down at her and added. "'s long as it's not me."

"Have you done anything which requires my revenge?" Ziva asked, turning her face up toward him.

Tony grinned hesitantly. "Recently?"

"Yes." Unwaveringly holding his gaze – her tone was half teasing, half cautious.

"You know," She felt Tony tense slightly, "you could always forgive me." – The note was of charming repentance mingled with diffidence as he muttered the suggestion into her hair.

Ziva settled more closely against him. "I do." Then she smiled and allowed the fragile, momentary spell to break. "But not completely because you left me alone with Kyle."

Kyle had been substitute when McGee was out with the 'flu. He was very worthy, very boring and incredibly talented at grating on everyone's nerves. For nearly a week Tony and Ziva had avoided eye contact so they wouldn't dissolve into unkind laughter. Or they wrestled with trying not to appear excessively rude. Finally, Ziva had proposed breaking his neck as the only solution. Tony had promised he would swear on a stack of bibles the attack was in self defense. Absolutely sure Gibbs would back them up or simply shoot Kyle himself. Unfortunately the object of all this plotted violence was immune to his shortcomings and rather taken with Ziva – a considerable part of her day had been spent in eluding Kyle.

"Great. Kyle can be my stunt double." Tony grinned. "Batter up."

Ziva's laugh floating across the park caught Gibbs' attention and he frowned. Ducky had walked over after lulling Vance through a post-lunch snooze with a comparison of cricket and baseball.

"I believe, Jethro, the most appropriate phrase would be: no harm, no foul." He took a seat beside him, noticing the disapproving expression.

"We'll see." Gibbs growled ambiguously.

Ziva had innate, exceptional hand-eye coordination. Tony could have released her after the first three or four pitches – having adequately imparted the coaching. Ziva didn't need to be nestled quite so firmly against his body. Rule #12 merely prohibited dating a co-worker. However, it said nothing about teaching her to play baseball. They were in public. Others were emerging from the early afternoon inactivity coma and joining the impromptu session. Although Gibbs' instincts were bothered, he had no grounds for remonstration. Ducky's observation was legitimate. Tony and Ziva were not transgressing; they were just having fun.

* * *

**Yes, I nicked the inspiration from 'Dead Air'. Yes, Ziva can play baseball – for my story she can't awfully well.**

**I know next-to-nothing about baseball – if any terms or the scene etc., etc. are wrong, please feel free to point out the errors.**

**Many thanks to everyone who has posted a review: also to all those who have me on their alert list. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me what you like/dislike or if it was daft…**


	17. Principles

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 17 – Still going.**

**The usual for background….**

* * *

"_We all live in the protection of certain cowardices which we call our principles"_

_Mark Twain_

**October 2010**

Ziva flung open the doors to the Emergency Room and marched briskly to the Nurses' Station.

"Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, please?" - Smiling as she made the inquiry a deliberately crafted mix of not-quite-urgent concern and courtesy. "I am his sister."

By forestalling formalities with the cool lie, the administrator's duty of care was vicariously accomplished; the busy, harassed woman began checking records. Ziva had convincingly sold falsehoods of far greater complexity to warier marks during her former life as a Mossad agent. She stepped aside in another gesture of polite co-operation.

"It would've been a whole lot more interesting if you'd told them you were my wife, Zee-vah." Tony's amused voice sounded from behind.

The team was working on a smuggling case; not weapons but equipment. The chain involved a number of participants and a wide-range of goodies. From laptops and smartphones to tents and sleeping bags: useful, yet nonetheless, valuable commodities for re-sale. Their focus had been on surveillance of a local fence and his Navy contact. In light of his instincts over the baseball game spectacle, Gibbs had decided on teaming Tony and McGee for the night-shift. He partnered with Ziva on the daylight rotation. There were to be no temptingly isolated hours with too much unoccupied time on their hands for Tony and Ziva – and definitely no veil of darkness.

The targets were busted very early that morning; another unit tackling the enlisted man. The civilian criminal turned violent in his resistance; which sent Tony to the hospital for a precautionary x-ray and McGee for treatment of a laceration. Ziva was collecting the pair; her goal of circumventing bureaucracy was merely born of an impatient personality. In her haste to find them, she had failed to notice Tony waiting at the side of the room.

He started walking toward her. "'Cause there's no way you'd pass for a relative."

"It would not be a credible cover, Tony, no ring." – Holding up her left hand and wiggling the fingers in dispassionate illustration.

The always efficient covert operative was evident - even in this simple ruse. "And you will have declared your status on the admission sheet. A cursory check…."

Turning around, her attention was drawn to a large splotch of blood down the side of his shirt. Rational comprehension clashed with irrational response. Ziva knew - had known before her arrival - Tony was virtually unscathed. Yet the vivid stain was a startling reminder of the daily possibility for disaster.

"'S not mine." Noticing her fleeting stricken look, Tony's easy reassurance was just a moment too late.

Nothing if not generally forthright and bold in her practical actions, Ziva abruptly yanked his shirt un-tucked for her own visual confirmation. Regarding him with worry, she impulsively ran her fingers over the nasty contusion already manifesting itself just above his hip – spreading up onto his lower rib-cage. The stroke and her manner were caring. They were also exceedingly personal and distinctly un-familial.

"Goddamn it, Zee-vah." Tony lightly slapped her hand away.

Although in full view of a fairly crowded and hectic waiting area, the exasperated reproach was not the result of any sense of modesty. Rather the reaction was prompted when he caught the eye of the hospital supervisor. She was exhibiting disapproving fascination with his initial reflexive grin of enjoyment at the sensation.

Tony smiled awkwardly. "I'm an only child." – Tucking his shirt back in. "She's…we work together."

His unsolicited, vaguely embarrassed, qualification wasn't successful. The woman shook her head with a faint 'it-takes-all-sorts' attitude.

"They'll be finished with McGee soon." Tony gave up explaining Ziva's very public invasion of privacy. "His hand needed stitches."

Ziva nodded. "I will be outside."

Having checked on their colleague's status, Tony went in search of Ziva. Her choice to escape from the milling mix of germ-laden humanity, cranky caregivers and bored or crying children seemed eminently sensible. She was leaning against the wall, with one foot up – staring into space. Ziva pushed herself from the collected pose, with an inquiring expression, as Tony approached.

"He's on his way." Tony scrutinized her. "Zee-vah?"

There was a remote, introspective air in her mood. "I was thinking of the hazards we have faced."

Standing in front of him, she glanced up with slightly uncertain smile. "The risks we take."

Normally, exceptionally detached about illness or injury, Ziva had been oddly unsettled by the sight of blood. Troubled because this was the hospital to which Rivkin had been brought. Sudden awareness had taken hold; if he had been victorious – instead of Tony - the wrong man would have died under the knife that night. The vagaries of chance were chilling. The depth of her feelings for Tony was completely terrifying.

After the altercation in the car, she had pondered the reality of their entanglement and Tony's steadfast position in her life. Saddened because she had never told him really – even platonically - how much he meant. Ziva was disturbed by an internal, compulsive need for voicing acknowledgement of his importance. It was a positive assignment; and, unfortunately, one which Ziva was particularly ill-equipped to perform. Especially since her concept of the issue was conflicted and muddled.

"They're usually calculated risks." Tony tried to avoid any suggestion he was dismissing her opinion.

Tony was puzzled by her honest assessment of their profession. She seemed to thrive on the adrenaline rush derived from threatening situations. Occasionally, in Tony's opinion, indulging in what might be considered reckless conduct - sometimes only saved by her formidable skill set or his intervention. He remembered her belief that those associated with Ziva were predestined for harm – ignorant of the true aspect to her reverie.

"Hey, I'm OK." Tony gently soothed in an attempt at alleviating her disquiet.

Unconsciously, during the exchange they had moved much nearer to each other; now there was absolutely no discernable distance between their bodies. Throughout the series of recent events, the impermeable membrane separating them from physical touch had been gradually dissolving.

Aware he'd rather egotistically assumed her reference only included him, Tony tacked on an after-thought. "McGee's gonna be OK too."

Tony needn't have expanded the comment; that he was the subject of her thoughts was implicitly disclosed by the look she gave.

"I know." She agreed cautiously. "That does not mean we should discount our….concerns for…people." – An obliquely worded, remarkably unenlightening, statement.

McGee's emergence from the building hampered further elaboration. Ziva was grateful for the interruption; struggling with the embryonic nature of her realizations and an ill-defined objective.

Their teammate was relieved at locating Tony and Ziva. Not in the least bit surprised they were standing on top of one another again - in what he would describe as an armless hug. However, he was decidedly unnerved when they didn't spring apart as he joined them – just casually altered the angle.

"Seriously?" Ziva produced keys and Tony recognized them - with a certain amount of horror. "The Hobbit car?"

She shrugged; unmoved by the derision. "I came straight from my apartment." – Clearly hinting at ingratitude on his part.

"You're in back, McGee." Tony commanded instantly; sounding rather like a bossy sibling.

Both Tony and McGee were tall; the exact same height. The idea of being squished in the rear seat of a little car – with Ziva behind the wheel – for the journey to the Navy Yard wasn't a very pleasant proposal.

"I've just been given six stitches and two shots." McGee appealed to Ziva – hoping his relatively more serious wound would carry weight.

Tony was unsympathetic. "Yeah and I've just had breakfast."

"Or Tony," McGee brightened as an inspired alternative beckoned, "you could drive?"

McGee and Tony swiveled in concert and stared pointedly at Ziva.

"Fine." She conceded irritably and surrendered the keys to a grinning Tony.

* * *

"You'd better be happy with the fucking thing here, 'cause I'm not moving it again." Tony leant against the offending article of furniture, slightly over-doing the weary, burdened exasperation.

It was early on a Sunday evening. Ziva had spent the afternoon assembling two bookcases.

When she first arrived back in the U.S., Vance had arranged Base Housing – a hasty, temporary fix. Although, after spending several months in captivity, the measure had provided an unforeseen therapy. The military atmosphere supplied a solid, familiar connection for a former soldier. She had found comfort in the regulated, barracks type of environment. Initially, it was a practical solution whilst her status as an agent was uncertain. However, she extended the stay past her reinstatement. Eventually moving only when it became apparent people were puzzled by her choice of accommodation. The necessary relocation was to a very small, nondescript place and she made little effort in its arrangement or décor. For a short while, Ziva lived in a barren, almost impersonal space – a reflection of her private struggle to re-knit her fractured sense of self.

Most of her belongings had been lost when Mossad decided to clean up the car-wreck that was Michael Rivkin's mission - by way of an explosion. What wasn't destroyed in the blast, or ruined by the necessary procedures employed by the Fire Dept., all abandoned in the ill-fated decision to remain in Israel. A few months before her citizenship ceremony, she had relocated – again - to this apartment. It was larger, filled with light, in an historic converted structure. In the same way becoming an American signaled the commencement of a new life, Ziva's attitude to her new residence denoted a sense she was making a home. She consigned her dispossessed, almost nomadic, existence to the past.

"OK, what's next?" He straightened up, twisting in an effort to stretch a twinge out of his back.

"Nothing: thank you." Ziva smiled. There was more than a trace of playing to the gallery in the stretch. "That was the only help I required."

The construction of the bookcases had taken longer than she anticipated. For someone whose first language was not English, reading instructions written by someone whose first language, clearly, wasn't English proved to be a trying ordeal. Once complete and filled, Ziva surveyed her handiwork and decided one of them was in the wrong position – from both an aesthetic and functional perspective. Despite being immensely capable and resourceful, Ziva found it too heavy to move alone. The choice was to wait until she had time to partially dismantle the piece, thus making it lighter, or obtain assistance. The prospect of leaving the task incomplete would niggle at her perfectionist streak – and she had called Tony.

"That's it?" Tony appeared aggrieved. "You dragged me over here to move one goddamn bookcase a half foot?"

Rolling his eyes, he continued the teasing complaint. "Granted, if you do the math, it probably works out at about twelve feet in total."

Ziva tilted her head. "You only moved it three times." – Playfully denouncing the claim. "Besides I wished to see which location was the most advantageous."

In truth he had enjoyed responding to her request. Ziva was, at times, pathologically self-sufficient – rarely asking for help with anything. Additionally, it was refreshing to be involved in such a mundane domestic task as re-arranging furniture.

"You do have neighbors, you know." Pleasure at coming to her rescue didn't reduce the fun Tony intended to have at her expense. "It's an American tradition, being neighborly. You're an American now, Zee-vah – you should try it sometime."

"I do not yet know many of them." Ziva was matter-of-fact in her explanation of the situation. "An older couple – the Campbells - and he is not in good health. Katie, a nurse, but she is on duty."

Tony picked up on the trace of defensiveness. He was struck by the realization Ziva's lack of interaction with her fellow tenants was the result of more than just being a relatively recent arrival. Ingrained in her by years of training - blend in, avoid attention. Anonymity and invisibility were desirable. These were all vital ingredients for a successful asset. Potential witnesses would find it difficult to give details beyond inaccurate awareness. Old habits didn't change simply with the issuance of an official piece of paper. It should come as no surprise to discover Ziva was slow in forming these kinds of connections.

"And there is a man downstairs. He is strange…" She searched for the right phrase "…a creeping Tom, I think."

"It's peeping; a peeping Tom." Tony grinned as he made the correction. "Though, in this case, creeping works pretty well."

He would pay good money for the entertaining vision of Ziva dispatching the ubiquitous building nut-job.

"So, naturally, you called the guy with bruised ribs, a creaking back and crap knee." Tony shifted the emphasis from her somewhat solitary home life.

"I called the guy who is stronger and more athletic." Ziva countered, amused by the characterization of his decrepitude.

She tried to make it seem more like an impartial observation. Less like she had spent an excessive amount of time, over the years, in appreciation of Tony's physical attributes.

Ziva began gathering tools and extra bolts – clearing up the debris from her earlier industry. There was a methodical concentration to the occupation and her demeanor changed a little. She had also been contemplating and reviewing the present state of their relationship. The analysis acted as a catalyst for the entire weekend's activities. The hours passed with a storm of restless busyness. Her reflections were filled with a dissatisfying mix; hope and alarm. The reverberation of 'just let it happen' supplying further complication.

Ziva's constantly distracted thoughts conspired with the uncooperative directions to cause a mood of disconsolation. The minor problem of repositioning the bookcase offered an impromptu, albeit flimsy pretext to meet with Tony - outside the constraints of the office. However, now the moment had arrived, she grew irresolute. Ziva had formulated a plan; an unhappy one. She knew the erratic quality to its application would be difficult.

"And I called…." Taking a breath, fidgety, she watched for his reaction. "I called because we need to talk." The words were nervously spoken.

"OK." Tony nodded – understanding - studying her speculatively.

He was surprised by the direct approach. "Put the Allen key down first though, in case I say the wrong thing."

A quizzical smile crossed his face. Although lounging against the bookcase again, he was obviously more attentive. Normally, the words 'we need to talk' operated like an assassination on any romance. They precipitated the relationship equivalent of drowning the entity in a bath of Holy water – and driving a stake through its heart just to be sure. Any girlfriend who uttered the phrase rapidly joined the massed ranks of ex-girlfriends. In Ziva's case, he found WNTT strangely optimistic. Of course, she wasn't – technically - his girlfriend. Nevertheless Ziva was, essentially, taking the next step – just as Ducky had predicted. Tony was interested to see exactly what size step she was prepared to take. And in which direction she would proceed; forward or back.

"We are partners..." Ziva started carefully.

"Agreed." Tony clapped his hands together, rubbing them in fake glee at concluded negotiations. "That was easy."

His gentle mocking was a temperament check. A fight wouldn't solve anything. If Ziva withdrew behind her barricades, or if Tony permitted frustration to snap his temper, all their hard won gains would be set back – or falter completely.

"I meant we are partners - which must be taken into consideration." A tart reprimand - she was edgy but dogged in pursuit of the goal.

"Oh, you weren't done yet?" The question, delivered with a charming, crestfallen expression, was deliberately devised to ignite the fuse.

He was treading a very fine line; using levity to anticipate any potential flashpoint. If Ziva's temper was going to furnish a shield, she might as well lose it at the beginning. It would be preferable to defer the conversation – to do nothing – if the opportunity wasn't authentic. Avoidance could prevent damaging misjudgments. Yet, at the same time, Tony was intrigued by her tentative bid. He did want to coax Ziva further.

Her eyes widened, full of withering exasperation. However, since she neither erupted into phosphorescent fury, nor, were there any signs the launch sequence had been initiated, Tony took a couple of steps in her direction.

"Consider away." He added with an expansive wave of his hand. Tony's sincere remark conveyed he was definitely engaged in the endeavor.

Notably, neither of them had to articulate, specifically, the identity of what was under consideration – the topic did not require a formal baptism. They simply retrieved the thread which had been woven into their lives from the very beginning. A fine, gossamer filament, seemingly delicate and in perpetual peril: in reality endowed with a tensile strength proportionate to that of a spider's web. It was an evanescent bond. This discussion would revolve around how closely their individual strands would be entwined.

Ziva backed away from him a little. "There is a reason….liaisons between personnel are discouraged or not permitted."

She intended a clear, pragmatic exposition against deeper development – quashing the poignant sense of loss engendered by such a stance. Ziva found solace in the fact she would bring order to the chaos for once and for all.

Ziva looked at Tony. "Not just by Gibbs, but in branches of the military, other law enforcement agencies."

This rationale was fairly straightforward in cancellation.

"They're not prohibited. Well, OK, Gibbs doesn't negotiate." Grinning wryly, he amended the argument. "But in the outside world, people do have _liaisons _with their co-workers." - Making fun of her word choice.

The first indication the outcome of the discussion was a foregone conclusion - in Ziva's view - appeared on the horizon.

"Such relationships are frowned upon because they may result in harm; for those involved, for others." The comment was a continuation of her theme; as if Tony hadn't spoken.

"It can place pressures….obligations upon people." - Laying out her reasoning with determination.

As enticing as it would be to 'just let it happen,' Ziva was scared by the idea of failure. What they shared held significance as it existed in current form. So much of her life had been manufactured, artificial. Investing in relationships predicated on deceit, convenience or advantage. Fear of losing the security afforded by this enduring partnership - if they advanced further - exacerbated Ziva's instincts for protection. She would fight for what mattered to her, for those she cared about. In this case, the principles were woefully confusing and indivisible in character.

So far Ziva was drafting her argument in assiduously impersonal terms. Now she deviated. "You saved my life." Reticently she raised the issue of perceived debt.

Ziva's eyes slid from Tony's. It was obvious she had selected reverse and was trying to unravel – or place limits on - their connection.

"No-one held a gun to my head, Zee-vah. I volunteered – for you." Definitively establishing the context for his behavior, Tony's voice was suddenly quiet, more serious. "That's gotta count for something."

"I did not mean your heroism was irrelevant." She hesitated; forced to recalibrate because she couldn't deny his statement.

"I seem to recall you telling Saleem to let me go and kill you. Where does that fit?" – Negating the objection before she expressed her conviction fully - reminding Ziva of her desperate bargain.

A twinge of frustration pricked his thoughts and Tony's next question was sharper. "Or are there different rules for you?"

The genuine integrity, the motivations behind his behavior were, perversely, counteracted by her worry he would wield power over Ziva. And use that influence for manipulation; as so many had done previously.

"That is why there are guidelines." Upset by the sarcasm lacing his curt reproach, Ziva retreated into the neutrality of generalizations again. "Such inequalities should not exist within…."

He cut her off firmly. "You would've died to save my life." Tony regained matter-of-fact calm.

His earnest testimony provided irrefutable proof of their dedication to each other.

"No-one owes anyone anything here." He solicitously removed the hidden barb; the sting which still smarted from her other experiences. "We're even."

It was neither a competition, nor, a ledger of favors. There would be no reckoning or payment extracted; her value was not calculated by what he could gain from control. She was worth something simply because she was Ziva.

She perched on the piano bench on the other side of the room from him.

"When we were at the hospital, last week, I realized Michael could have killed you." Ziva outlined her next precept – the most significant one.

As Tony moved toward her, Ziva rose from her post, walking over to the windows, away from Tony. The underlying communication was clear; she was rejecting closeness at this juncture. Actual distance mirroring metaphysical quarantine – Tony reluctantly accepted the unwelcome hint.

"Because I wouldn't listen to you….because I believed Michael loved me." She was glad Tony couldn't see her face. "I trusted the wrong person which had consequences."

Over the months, the gradual rising of Ziva's emotional barometer, from its nadir in Somalia, provoked unfamiliar sensitivity at how thoroughly Rivkin had shattered her illusions.

"You got hurt, Zee-vah." Tony softly acknowledged her distress.

It didn't matter that all he could observe was her back; identifying the mood from her body language and the haunted tone. "And it's just taken a little time, 's all."

"As did you." Ziva reciprocated the sympathy, turning around.

From her perspective, of all the harms induced by her affair with Michael Rivkin, the most inexcusable wrong was the damage to Tony. Blaming Tony, lashing out at him, Ziva had attempted to assuage the betrayal. Briefly, his career had been in jeopardy. Her actions had subjected Tony to an internal affairs investigation, censure from Vance and scrutiny by her father; not an interview she would inflict on many.

"Nothing that wouldn't let me take the risk again." He captured her gaze and lightly opened another avenue. Tony wasn't referring to his job.

Ziva paused - assimilating his remark which was unexpected. "You were in jeopardy."

Rivkin was an assassin; highly trained and talented.

"He was like me – the danger was very real Tony." She admonished; still trying to verbalize why the notion he could have been killed was so rattling.

"I never said it wasn't." Tony sat on the sofa. "But I'm not him." - Making a double point.

He knew the threat posed by Rivkin; knew he'd been lucky to a certain extent. Nevertheless, one crucial reason Tony had emerged alive was because he was smarter. Unlike the Mossad Officer, he hadn't underestimated his opponent. Rivkin had committed that fatal mistake when it came to Tony. The other, more important, aim was to underline the distinction between himself and Rivkin – as men. Tony would never treat Ziva with the same callous disregard.

"You could have died in Somalia." - The second occasion when she could claim the dubious distinction of culpability for his possible demise. "You did not know how Saleem would behave."

"Gibbs had a pretty good idea how it'd go down; chat then death." – Smiling as he glanced at her. "All I had to do was buy us a window."

Tony's joke was an off-hand depiction of the actual and symbolic facts.

"Twice I have needlessly endangered you." Ziva soberly made her case. "And that is why rules prevent such relationships." – Reiterating the original theory.

"Were something to happen to you, I do not think I…" Again the anxiety and regret dominated her approach. "You do not know how that feels."

He gave a hollow, sardonic laugh. "Christ, I thought I had killed you."

"Do you know what that fucking feels like?" – Holding his hands out in an almost dejected appeal.

The harsh accusation caused by irritation flaring. They seemed trapped in a perpetual helix which spiraled around the exchange.

Ziva stared at him; remembering the flickering vestige of pain in his eyes when talking about her loss. And Ziva realized she had re-opened the wound. She could see the tension and doubt in his expression. The cost of his striving for understanding of her demons and reassurance of her worries was sketched into his features. It echoed in the hurt note of his voice. Tony's doubts and vulnerabilities were exposed. Ziva wished to ease the stress level for him – soothe the hurt and turmoil she'd inadvertently caused.

Moreover, comprehension materialized. It followed a path mapped by the shooting episode, its aftermath and highlighted by all their joint experiences. Tony had, in his own very unique way, made an unspoken vow to her – one upon which he had never reneged. It was a stunning revelation.

After a minute of thoughtful silence, she gently altered the emphasis of the debate. In her desire to offer comfort, return the empathy, Ziva took the risk both of them had dodged for too long. She posed the Mt. Everest of unrequited questions - colossal in terms of 'what ifs' and the ramifications derived from any response.

"Tony, what question did you not want me to ask?" Being Ziva, she opted for a peculiar strategy.

Whatever information Tony's intuition told him was nearly infallible; especially within his perception. Ever rational, she sought to navigate his guard and instigate an instinctual reaction.

Despite her own evident hesitancy, Ziva persisted. "At the camp, when you warned me you were drugged?" - Moving from her self-imposed exile at the edge of the room. "You told me not to ask if I did not want to know the answer."

Tony didn't need the memory refresher. He looked up; momentarily surprised and with no quick, easy answer. He wasn't sure how he expected the evening to end. He certainly wasn't sure how he thought their relationship would be resolved – or when. The space-time continuum had just shifted dramatically and he was playing catch up. Tony's default assurance abandoned him.

"Um, I guess what I'd kinda already told you…." He was suddenly nervous.

It was one thing to mentally appreciate his feelings. And he conceded inwardly, even that elementary measure of honesty had taken him an inordinate amount of time. Articulating those feelings – unequivocally - was a totally different prospect.

Tony's grin was brief, indecisive. "When I said I couldn't live without you….."

Acutely aware the stumbling declaration wasn't exactly eloquent. Nor, for that matter, was it particularly intelligible. And it was painfully lacking his usual, smooth charm when dealing with women.

He swallowed, fidgeting uncomfortably. "You know….uh, if it was true." – Standing abruptly and unwilling to look at Ziva.

Tony's cell 'phone rang. He flipped it open, noting the number but not taking the call. One of Gibbs' Rules had just been broken. In this simple, marginally rebellious, act Tony set an enormous precedent.

Tentatively, he met Ziva's eyes. "What did you hope I'd say if you'd asked?"

There was little purpose in backtracking or dropping the subject. That fact notwithstanding, Tony found himself involuntarily holding his breath.

His reward was a shy, affectionate smile. "Yes."

With one word; the atmosphere changed entirely.

And then Ziva's cell 'phone rang. "It is Gibbs."

Casting a vexed glance at Tony - who signaled she should ignore the call - she answered.

Tony was more than slightly annoyed; both by the timing of their boss' interruptions and Ziva's compliance.

"Jesus, you'd think he'd had us fucking micro-chipped or something." His grievance was only just sufficiently subdued in volume.

She impatiently mouthed 'shut up' and walked into the kitchen.

* * *

**Huge thanks to everyone who has posted a review: also to all those who have me on their alert list. The thoughts and feedback are really appreciated. So, again make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me what makes sense, that none of it makes sense….**


	18. Belief

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 18 – Mostly fluffy.**

* * *

"_I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else."_

_John Keats_

**October 2010**

Tony followed Ziva into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and stood staring for a few moments whilst she was on the 'phone. Eavesdropping - his missed communication had emanated from the same source. Eventually he selected orange juice, swinging the door shut as Ziva finished the call.

"So what does Gibbs want?" - Hoping they weren't about to be summoned to a crime scene.

Leaning against the counter, he unscrewed the cap and lifted the container before noticing Ziva's reprovingly raised eyebrows.

"Right." – Grinning an apology. "I'll need something….else to drink out of."

Ziva handed him a glass. In reality, she'd been trying not to laugh; finding the unconscious familiarity of his behavior entertaining. "Tomorrow's seminar has been postponed."

They shared relief. The torture of being confined, as press-ganged students, during slideshows, PowerPoint presentations and lectures was a mini vision of damnation. Frequently, mysterious ailments would strike the Navy Yard whenever one of these events was scheduled – or there would be an outbreak of immature pranks.

"Postponed or ditched?" Tony asked hopefully.

"Only postponed." Ziva imparted the depressingly temporary aspect of their reprieve.

Gibbs would be excessively unhappy with the results of his accidental interference in the evening's conversation. The interlude had dispelled the fervid, concentrated ambiance somewhat. This permitted them a little pause for adjustment to unfamiliar ground - without pressure. Although, because it was Tony and Ziva, they began in differing parts of the territory - under separate agendas. And the dynamic underwent another change. The constantly evolving interaction - which kept poor McGee so perplexed - mutated again.

Tony's natural confidence re-emerged; he'd finally told Ziva he loved her. Granted, the three pertinent words were absent – Rome wasn't built in a day. However, Ziva could be left in no doubt as to what 'I couldn't live without you' meant. And, more importantly, she had accepted the confession. Tony remained in one piece, she wasn't angry and she hadn't ordered him to leave. In fact, Ziva had made a positive expression of her own feelings.

By contrast, Ziva's mood was of regretful acquiescence. Happiness over their new-found candor and understanding was undermined by the unfavorable external factors. They cared for one another with frightening intensity. Now Tony knew how she truly felt. Yet that knowledge couldn't amend the problems; her original resolution held. Reluctantly Ziva concluded she must refocus the debate on why they should –had to - remain close friends and colleagues; nothing further.

Since fate had bestowed a lucky break - they weren't being called out - Tony re-opened the discussion. "What were we talking about?" – Casually feigning forgetfulness.

Unaware of Ziva's converse interpretation of the exchange, Tony's comment was characteristically flippant – a too serious approach would be unnecessarily heavy-handed.

"We were talking about us." There was nothing to be gained in delaying or prolonging the agony.

She glanced gravely at Tony. "Because we work together, it would be difficult if we were to…." Here Ziva stopped, hesitating, with a plaintive smile. "It is impossible."

Not an encouraging assessment of their future.

"That's not talking." Having reached the perimeter of the Go/No Go zone for the umpteenth time, Tony decided to assert a modicum of directional guidance – before Ziva succeeded in sabotaging her objective. After all, WNTT had been her idea.

"That's presuming a fact." – Slowly, calmly depositing the juice container. She had reclaimed his full, slightly alarmed, attention with the surprisingly negative evaluation.

For the best part of six years he had developed his methods for handling Ziva. Deploying a wide variety of techniques, instinctively matching each strategy to whichever of her moods presented. And that was the trick. This situation, however, was fluid in nature – an undiscovered country. Stepping in and taking control was a gamble based solely on suspicion. Ziva had acknowledged the relationship. She was also certifying it null and void. There was no way to gauge how much was concern for some of the, admittedly real, obstacles in their path. And how much was habitual flight – a reflex reaction to near-constant hurt and disappointment.

"If you're gonna talk, Zee-vah, you have to make it dialogue, not dogma." He cocked an eyebrow. "Difficult doesn't mean the same as impossible." Tony's authoritative remark effortlessly contradicted her pronouncement of an absolute.

"We are Federal Agents." – Undeterred in mentioning the obvious. "There is a standard required."

Tony walked over, closing the gap between them. Significantly, Ziva didn't retreat from the proximity - just stiffened imperceptibly.

"We wouldn't be failing any standards." He was equally determined. "We'd just be dating."

The spoken introduction of dating as the next step was highly disconcerting. Ziva was having trouble maintaining her line of thought. Tony was systematically dismantling her reasons with cool rationality. Instead of reaching an agreement on maintaining the status quo, the encounter was inching, in an unsettling fashion, toward a different result.

She renewed her efforts. "Tony, we are partners on a team." – Believing a reminder of how closely they worked together might be of greater persuasion.

"Every day we must be impartial, we must co-operate – sometimes under stressful circumstances." A gentle reproach; discounting their already tempestuous professional relationship should not be undertaken lightly.

"That's not talking." Tony grinned with good-natured tolerance as Ziva worked through a sudden wave of anxiety - by identifying and announcing every conceivable rationale against a relationship. "That's telling me stuff I already know."

His patient adherence to an alternative view muddled her perceptions. Tony's ability to neutralize her sterile objections and offer in their stead beguiling possibility was an irresistible temptation. Ziva was keenly aware he was standing extremely near to her. He appeared outrageously relaxed, casually resting an arm on the counter; whereas Ziva was finding Tony's possession of her personal space disturbing.

"There might be consequences for our careers." - Very sensible and very dull.

Tony looked at her quizzically. Ziva's appeal for resistance was cracking under his continued refusal to award the slightest suggestion of merit to her claims.

Ziva was acutely conscious of her increased breathing rate, her heart had started beating awfully fast and an indefinable thrill tingled – not the least because there was distinct air of assured purpose in Tony's manner. She was struggling for composure against a twin assault; Tony's intentions and her wishes.

"Tony…." She shot him a helpless glance. "There could be disciplinary proceedings." She tensed a little as he pushed himself forward. "It would be unprofessional…dangerous perhaps…"

Tony leaned in and briefly kissed the very corner of her mouth. "That's not talking either." He remonstrated softly.

"That's stating reasons why we shouldn't" - Nudging her out of the structured laundry list of logic and back into the bewildering, undisciplined realm of emotions. "And they're all problems we could figure out." - Another laid-back rebuttal.

Her mind went completely blank. "It would be complicated….." Ziva's voice was a shade unsteady as she tried to marshal her argument. Absolutely certain she had a valid point – if only she could remember it.

"Seriously?" Tony repeated the kiss. This one was placed explicitly on her mouth – although, once again, he kept it quick and light.

"And it's not complicated now?" – Faintly amused by the notion their entanglement had been straightforward until tonight.

She placed a hand on his chest and he wondered if she was going to push him back. Tony still hadn't laid a hand on her and had deliberately left room for an escape route - if she was uncomfortable.

"There is Gibbs." Ziva mused vaguely. "His rule….." At this particular moment, Gibbs' likely opinion on the issue seemed an inconsequential, benign presence.

Tony grinned at the effect he was having. "That could be trouble." - The only one of her protests to which he would concede.

He kissed her again, continuing the same easy pattern. And when he pulled his head away, Ziva's lips followed, mimicking his fleeting, evocative caress.

"This is not talking, Tony." - Sighing a final, half-hearted attempt to stop the inevitable.

"Nope." Tony took another kiss. "But it's a damn sight better than anything you've come up with so far, Zee-vah."

Angling her head with one hand, with his arm loosely holding her, Tony hoped he wouldn't have to end this kiss. He captured one lip in his, and gently made the invitation with his tongue. Ziva's mouth opened, her other hand moved to the nape of his neck.

Tony was enjoying the sheer delight of being able to touch her at last. Years of curbing his ambitions, of having to watch a stream of others nonchalantly exercise the privilege, melted away. He was taking his time; savoring the long, tantalizing kisses. Leisurely investigating her mouth, tasting her skin and feeling the curves of her body; he would have been happy if they spent the whole night making out. Perhaps happy was over-stating the case a little. He'd already been forced to suppress the impulse of lifting Ziva onto the butcher's block in the middle of the room – the most conveniently situated flat surface. Despite this insurgent aspiration, there was a reason for the restraint. Tony was willing to lead; Ziva had to set the pace.

Ziva was adrift in soft pleasure, pushing closer to him. Tony's hands roved over her body and his lips insistently sought contact - any kind of contact - with her. Each touch seemed to satisfy a craving; only to create an almost instantaneous need for more. She was also puzzled. It wasn't quite the unfettered ravishing she had assumed would, automatically, occur - if they ever did release the containment valve on attraction. Certainly an exceedingly thorough seduction and there could be no doubt Tony was turned on and passionate. Then the realization dawned. He was holding back, waiting for her to indicate how far she wanted to advance the embrace. A sweet, gallant gesture – resulting in heart-felt longing and Ziva's murmured request.

"Take me to bed, please?"

* * *

Across D.C. - all over the world really - people were experiencing their first kisses, losing their virginity and generally taking their relationships to whatever the next level might be. And then there were Tony and Ziva. Thus far it had been something more akin to a wrestling match; an ecstasy of fumbling to borrow the poet's phrase. Their legs tangled clumsily, her hair snagged in the links of his watchband. By Tony's standards it was borderline incompetent. When she elbowed him in the ribs – on the bruise - for the second time, Tony howled in amused irritation and pinned her beneath him.

"Zee-vah." He shook his head with a mix of affectionate disbelief and acknowledgment of their predicament. "Does everything have to be a battle?"

Ziva laughed. It was ridiculous. Adults who'd spent years lusting after one another, were managing with considerably less success – and finesse - than a pair of anxious adolescents. His joking comment served to ease the awkwardness a little. Nevertheless, it was evident tension lingered. She was trying too hard and he was thinking too much.

"Do you trust me?" There was an unexpected hint of fervency to Tony's voice as he asked the question.

"Yes." Ziva solemnly, steadily held his gaze.

"Then trust me."

He eased them into a spooning position – this way he could hold her. A definite benefit to all that practice; Tony was an expert and he knew exactly what he was doing. With infinite care, he was kissing Ziva's back, shoulders and neck; a hand cupping her breast, massaging one nipple and then the other. The free hand smoothly wandered all over her body; eventually trailing along her side and across her stomach; pausing over the discovery of sensitive areas. This was far more than merely the consideration of a skilful lover. If he only got one chance to sleep with her, Tony wanted her to enjoy – not endure – it. Ziva relaxed at the tender touches; trying to remember the last occasion anyone made her feel this way – if anyone had ever made her feel this way.

She gasped, adjusting her pose a little as the stroking reached her clit, a different kind of tension suffusing her body. Tony was deliciously unhurried in his devotion - apparently willing to take all night in exploration of her erogenous zones. He watched Ziva slowly let go and surrender; deconstructing her last barricades from the inside out. His now-wet fingertips deliberately skating suggestive lines down the inside of one thigh, and back up the other - randomly caressing higher. When he had accentuated anticipation to the point of sublime, Ziva moaned an impatient command. The intimate, insistent pleasure returned; enhanced by the teasing. Her fingers gripped his forearm whilst Ziva's other hand tugged at the pillow, muscles twitching in spasms. Her head straining back into his shoulder as Tony cradled Ziva against him.

He turned Ziva onto her back and moved on top, entering her. Ziva hissed a short intake of breath and Tony pulled out – kneeling – still thinking too much. The concerned remark was just forming when it became obvious he'd misread her reaction. Ziva sat up, sliding forward, using him for leverage and displaying her remarkable flexibility. Tony's hands provided unthinking support for her back as she slipped – hot and slick – along his erection. Ziva's eyes were fixed on his expression, as she slowly moved up and down.

"Don't do that." Not so much an instruction but rather a constricted plea. In response to Ziva's raised eyebrow of inquiry, he barely managed to mutter "'cause I should probably try to take this slow and easy."

Ziva gave an arch smile and a glint of challenge sparked in her eyes. She repeated the action; straddling across his lap. Rising fully onto her knees, Ziva settled by degrees - exquisitely teasing the tip of his cock. The achingly erotic motion was almost unbearable for Tony.

Bending her neck, her teeth grazed his jaw-line - "I am not broken, yes?" – Provocatively whispering the reminder against his ear.

Tony shakily lowered her onto the bed and Ziva drew him in. Any notions of exercising control or reining-in his desire were totally obliterated. There were no more barriers. Tony's last coherent thought was that Ziva wanted him as much as he wanted her. And Tony wanted Ziva very badly – very now. The kisses were forceful - no gentle proposition here – pushing his tongue into her mouth, holding her head until she had to twist it away to breathe. His movements were demanding, intense. Tony was consumed by the insanely incredible experience of fucking her; seeking to own the sensation for as long as possible. Ziva's breaths were a series of irregular, soft cries – each one slightly more urgent than the last. Still sensitized from the first orgasm, her second - stronger one – was achieved in gradually escalating stages. She was clinging to him, hitting climax as she felt Tony building inside her. As she pressed into Tony, the ripple of contraction clamping around him triggered release. The rhythm altered - becoming jerky and involuntary.

"Zee-vah, Je…." Burying his face into her neck: the words a stuttered, guttural groan, "…Jeesus."

* * *

Neither of them spoke or moved at first - in mutual reluctance to break the contact. Uncomplicated pleasure, from physical reactions, reverberated through their bodies. Eventually Tony raised his head, nuzzling her ear.

"We should talk more often." - A masterpiece of breathless, exhilarated understatement.

He was unable to help the slight surge of near-Neanderthal pride when he looked at Ziva. She was intermittently gulping air, trying to recover and failing miserably. Tony moved to roll off her and Ziva prevented him. Cherishing the comfort - the feeling of being sheltered, protected beneath him. Once she obtained sufficient breath to speak, Ziva stroked his cheek.

"We do still have much to resolve by talking." - Adding with smiled emphasis - "And I mean talk - with words."

"Like what?" Tony shifted to the side a little, in compromise, propping himself on one elbow; absent-mindedly twisting fingers in her hair.

"Work, Tony." Ziva admonished him. "We need to discuss work."

This wasn't exactly Tony's idea of pillow-talk and he tried to deflect, shrugging. "What's to discuss, Zee-vah? We'll have a professional life and a personal life." Grinning suggestively, he kissed her shoulder. "Very personal."

Ziva wouldn't be diverted. "What if people know?" A trace of concern crept into her voice.

"They won't." Tony dismissed the worry. "We don't have to tell anyone."

"But what if they did know?" - Quietly persistent with her speculation.

Tony was baffled; unable to fathom why Ziva was so fixated on the particular matter of secrecy. "Is this because I talked to Ducky?"

Ziva shook her head. "No." She stayed silent for a few minutes – lost in contemplation.

"There is McGee?" The same note of cautious misgiving tinged the inquiry.

"What about McGee?" He glanced at her. "If he figures it out and snitches, I promise you can beat the shit out of him and I'll pay someone to screw with his Elf Lord stats."

In truth, Tony was utterly convinced McGee would never rat on them. He was an excellent, exceptionally loyal friend – who had supported them, unobtrusively, throughout. Half the time McGee might not have known – or for that matter understood - precisely what he was supporting. He was unwavering in that support nonetheless. Of all the potential pitfalls, McGee was the smallest of their worries.

"McGee's solid, Zee-vah." He gently chided her for mistrust of their teammate.

"Besides, the worst that'll happen is we end up on the pages of Gemcity's latest book." - Momentarily distracted as sense memory filled his brain. "Doubt he's the imagination to do it justice though."

Ziva ran a finger tip along his chest, her eyes off his gaze. "You would not tell him?'

Tony caught the singular hesitancy in her question. Her mercurial nature had reinvented itself again – converting into stress with no clear cause. Tony began to form the distinct impression there was an underlying rationale to Ziva's interrogation. She was trying to find an antidote – for an as yet unnamed affliction.

"Why the fuck would I do that?" He demanded with incredulous injury.

Tony might like to imply he lacked a sense of chivalry where women were concerned. He was, in fact, the complete opposite. Resistance to commitment was definitely an issue; casual unkindness was not. And Zee-vah should know that truth.

"To collect on your bet." - A neutral statement which nearly disguised her doubts.

There it was. Sudden comprehension crystallized in Tony's mind. He had a reputation. With the subsidence of euphoria, Ziva feared her place as just another conquest. Beset by irrational distress – the natural repercussion of having been used before. The emotional scales were not quite rebalanced. It would take a while for her turmoil to abate and he would willingly wait. Moreover, Tony became aware – years ago - balance would never be the most appropriate choice of word in reference to Ziva.

"For Christ's sake, how'd you find out?" - Initially wondering if McGee had contravened the 'Guy Rules' and told Ziva - slightly indignant if he had.

Recollection, of the day Ziva arrived to take up her duties at NCIS, hijacked his thought process. McGee had sidled up to him for a consultation; perturbed and intimidated by the Mossad Officer. Tony, on the other hand, was intoxicated and intrigued; already losing himself – subconsciously - to the enigmatic spirit that was Ziva. Not about to admit the impact Ziva had on him to McGee, Tony had re-directed. He proposed the younger man deal with his apprehension by imagining sex with her. Partly because McGee possessed an innocent streak which often fell victim to Tony's mocking; partly because the cavalier attitude was an element of Tony's persona.

Tony had been hugely amused by McGee's chaste complaints the advice wasn't helpful. Piqued by the relentless goading, McGee had implied Tony couldn't, wouldn't be able to sleep with Ziva. The disavowal had prompted the obligatory declaration - with unassailable arrogance - "Wanna bet? OK. How much?"

"I overheard your conversation." Ziva was typically honest, avoiding his look. "Now you have won."

Tony frowned. It had been a trivial incident. Long-forgotten until she jogged his memory and the wager not in the least bit serious. It was rather unfair for the topic to come back and haunt him now. He pondered how best to reassure Ziva.

"Not really. I was hoping to nail the hot, Ninja-chick." Pausing as he tried to make eye contact. "I didn't plan on getting involved."

Ziva did meet his eyes; quietly asking - "And does that mean we are involved?"

She was not requiring commitment per se; merely seeking to establish the encounter held meaning. Ziva needed affirmation, needed the security. And Tony realized he wanted to tell her, wanted to supply that guarantee. He didn't answer immediately – ensuring there could be no misinterpretations when he did.

"Yeah." Brushing his lips against hers, "I guess it does." - Deepening the kiss.

The kissing was canceled when Tony made another connection.

"That's how you knew I was thinking of doing Page 57 to you." He exclaimed in satisfaction at solving an old puzzle - and appearing a little aggrieved.

"You were afraid I could read your mind." Ziva accused with gleeful triumph.

Her skill of discreet observation, joining the dots and utilizing the conclusions to throw people off-balance – with unsettling self-possession - was the stuff of Agency legend.

"Told you all that sneaking around wasn't healthy." Tony grumbled, lazily kissing her neck.

She was caressing the back of his head; enjoying the contentment, the pleasure of being this near to him.

"Still, we should devise tactics." She wriggled even closer; reverting to the practical.

"Oh Jesus Zee-vah." - Genuinely exasperated. "Why don't we just wait and see what happens?"

"Because, Tony," Matching his tone as an equally firm rebuke, "What if Gibbs finds out?" The conundrum was inescapable and insoluble.

This was an undeniable headache; one which Ziva was wisely trying to prevent. Unfortunately, apart from fervently hoping Gibbs didn't find out, there was no cure. Essentially, the only course of action available was to conduct an illicit relationship. And cross their fingers – and in all probability their toes. The punishments for dating a co-worker were unknown. However, Gibbs' stern, paternal management style of his team meant discovery would likely be a decidedly unpleasant experience. He would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his people in adversity but he also enforced his Rules.

"OK." Tony gave in with a resigned smile. "Tell me."

This was, he recognized, simply the ebb-and-flow of Ziva's tide. Having soothed one care, she was trying to establish parameters for the others. In the field, meticulous planning - accounting for infinite variables - had kept Ziva alive. She was seeking to control the unpredictable quality of a relationship – far scarier for Ziva - by application of the same efficient principles. She would employ operational diligence in her attempts to keep Gibbs in ignorance. The flaw in her scheme was the basic fact it wouldn't work for any extended period. Tony was familiar with their boss' virtually clairvoyant abilities. Ziva was good; Gibbs was better. And Tony didn't relish the prospect of confronting the unpalatable reality tonight.

"If we do not behave suspiciously, he will not suspect." Ziva began listing counter-measures.

"We should not leave together – unless it would be perfectly natural…..Tony." Her statement ended as a scold.

Tony knew she was capable of fretting over the Gibbs dilemma ad infinitum - and opted for some spontaneous subterfuge of his own. The kisses became more focused; moving to the base of her throat, along her collar bone and down her sternum.

Tony affected innocence. "I'm listening." - His thumb rubbing at a nipple. "Really."

"We should not alter our behavior." Ziva valiantly tried to pursue the discussion. "Tony?"

"Uh-huh." She felt the grin against her skin as he shifted his position and his head continued lower.

Whatever she was supposed to be saying drifted into the not-terribly-important-right-now region of Ziva's brain.

* * *

**Smut is not one of my strengths as a writer - if this didn't work as a chapter, you'll just have to use your imaginations to compensate. Happy S9 opener day for those in the right areas!**

**A huge thank you to everyone who has posted reviews – it is very helpful to know what you think. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me what you liked, what you didn't…. There's still a little bit more in the story.**


	19. Growing Up

**N: I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 19 – I did say it wasn't quite done. There's a wee time jump forward. And again I messed with canon the tiniest bit. **

**The usual for background….**

* * *

"_You have to do your own growing no matter how tall your grandfather was."_

_Abraham Lincoln_

**December 2010**

They were dating.

If Gibbs' Gut actually spoke to him, the intervening period could be described as a conversation. From day one his sonar had pinged alarm over Tony and Ziva. To the extent he'd even considered not ordering Tony to tail Ziva during the sad aftermath of Kate's death. The instant frisson which attached to their minimal interactions worried him enormously. Juggling the dual shocks of Kate's murder and Jenny's appointment, Gibbs had little choice. Certain if he detailed McGee to the task, Ziva would eat the junior agent alive. At least Tony was a match for her; too perfect a match. When Ziva had re-appeared in the bull-pen, as the newly-minted Mossad Liaison, one of his biggest concerns was the heady concoction of an adversarial clash commingled with the magnetic attraction between their personalities. Gibbs knew whatever else transpired, keeping Tony and Ziva on the right side of Rule #12 would be an arduous, full-time battle.

Since October to now, this ever-present sense had been augmented by a gradually increasing level of background chatter from his intuition. It started as a whisper after the episode with the bomb. Ziva had tackled Tony to the ground, flattening him from the blast. The sound of anxiety in her voice was unmistakable; her actions instinctual and immediate. To anyone but Gibbs, it was merely the quick-thinking reaction of one partner for another. And, undeniably, Ziva would have done the same for any of them. At a stretch, it may have been excused as the result of a faultless, professional connection. However, the way the pair had rolled, with easy familiarity, was tell-tale. Bodies responding and wrapping into each other in a manner which shrieked it was not an uncommon occurrence; though, clearly, one usually performed with significantly less clothing. Tony's hands were just a little too quick to steady her against him. Ziva's face just a little too close to his as they laughed over some private joke.

Their boss allowed for the possibility they'd simply slept together once, at some indeterminate point in their past, with no damaging fall-out. This would be a venial rather than mortal sin in the Gibbs catechism. The Rule specifically forbade dating because of the complications arising from longer term emotional relationships. Married four times, divorced three - even Gibbs conceded that people were people, sometimes sex was just sex. And, sometimes, this unpredictable combination led to isolated incidents of forgivable stupidity. In reality, Gibbs doubted either as likely explanations for his disquiet over the contact.

His internal commentary reached murmuring volume with the arrival of Ziva's father. The abrupt materialization of Eli David in Washington D.C. was sufficiently traumatic. Stirring unhappy memories, old rivalries and creating an Alpha Male hostility triangle of unprecedented proportions. Gibbs neither respected, nor trusted Eli; Tony loathed him openly. Eli was imperious and impervious to both. And Ziva was the object of the contentious atmosphere; at the nexus of all the intersecting lines. Terrorism, treachery and two attempts on Vance's life added to the maelstrom; an uncertain, difficult and highly stressful few days. Yet, there had been no additional bathroom conferences nor extra non-verbal messages and looks. Tony and Ziva were not striving for harassed exchanges, snatched in the brief interludes of downtime. The obvious absence of such private communications during the saga was glaring. The equally obvious conclusion; Tony was being debriefed - and Ziva finding comfort - after hours.

Gibbs' intestinal interlocutor became louder with Jerry; Mummy and Daddy Shrinks' homegrown lab. rat. His persistent observation that Tony was special had eroded Ziva's tolerance; eventually provoking fury. By any nonpartisan yard-stick, Tony was different for Ziva and vice versa. Taking into account their entire history, Jerry's impromptu, astute insight was accurate. Ziva's denials, her insistence that Tony was absolutely indistinguishable from the other team members – in terms of her affection - were unnecessarily emphatic. Without question, the lady was protesting too much.

Finally, shortly after Jerry had been dispatched to inflict his analysis upon another group of sufferers, the tone progressed to yelling.

"What tipped you off to our Naval Louise back there?" Tony had been in the observation room. Watching as a witness transformed into the accused under her skillful interrogation. Plus, given the present circumstances, it gave him an opportunity just to look at Ziva.

"The Petty Officer could only provide a vague description of their alleged assailant." Ziva tilted her head, considering her rationale. There had been several indicators. "She could give a very detailed description of the gun used."

Tony grinned. "If that's all it takes, Zee-vah, you could give a detailed description of an entire armory."

"I would be capable also of giving detailed descriptions of my attackers, Tony." She smiled at the back-handed compliment.

"True." He was walking, backwards, down the corridor in front of her.

"Telling the story about the other assault, that was a nice touch though." He admired her switch from cool detachment into empathy which secured the confession.

Some inkling derived from the composed young woman's testimony had caused Ziva's alteration of her technique. "How come you went with that and not the nerveless ninja routine?"

Ziva shrugged. "She is not a killer."

Acknowledging Tony's dubiously cocked eyebrow, she amended the classification. "The fatality was accidental. Sympathy was more effective."

The atmosphere shifted slightly as he cast a quizzical glance at Ziva. "So did you make a decision about New Year's yet?"

Tension over the hidden affair had been building in recent weeks. Tony had been trying to persuade Ziva they should get away for the long weekend. He hoped a breathing space outside of D.C. - and freedom from the attendant worry of being caught - would be a helpful break. A thoughtful, though, transient fix for the niggling aggravation. Ziva was extremely reluctant. Anxious that suddenly arranging vacation for both of them, on the Friday and Monday, would be impossible to manage without drawing unwelcome attention. After expressing an initial negative toward the wisdom of his plan, Ziva had conspicuously avoided the topic every time Tony mentioned the idea of a trip. With time running short, Tony risked raising the subject at the office.

"No." The note in Ziva's voice warned of her discomfort with the question and was underlined by her short answer.

"Is that no; no decision?" Tony pressed, ignoring the hint. "Or a no, it's not happening decision? 'Cause if we're gonna…."

He nearly collided with Gibbs coming around the corner.

"Oh hey, Boss." Too casual as he turned around - after briefly screwing his eyes closed in a particularly 'oh fuck' manner.

"Petty Officer Thomas has admitted her part in the shooting." Ziva supplied the needed distraction.

"And Zee-vah didn't even threaten force this time." Tony smoothly regained his customary attitude.

Gibbs nodded curtly and continued on his way. The exchange could have been one of Tony and Ziva's usual routines. Tony's inquiry could have been referring to a number of innocent Holiday plans. Everyone had been invited to Ducky's for one of his sumptuous lunches on New Year's Day. The co-workers, case-load permitting, would undoubtedly send off the old and greet the new as a unit. There would be, at least, an opening celebratory visit to a bar - even if they were all heading for individual plans later. The giveaway was they looked guilty – both of them – very guilty. Unusually Ziva had appeared singularly uncomfortable. No further confirmation of his inner discourse was required. Gibbs' stare was a silent, astoundingly eloquent, statement. He achieved a remarkable blend of menacing disapproval and reproachful disappointment without uttering a single word.

Whatever was going on had been going on actively for two months. His personal misgivings aside, a Senior Agent was apparently engaged in a sexual relationship with a subordinate – a Probationary Agent - on the same team. With all the perceptions of inequality and the inference of duress, the situation was inappropriate by Agency standards. As Gibbs marched down the corridor, he mentally began preparation for a severe double reading of the Riot Act – the Director's Cut version - starting with DiNozzo. He liked to claim the prerogatives which came with his rank. Tony was about to discover the obligations which also came with the commission - in excruciatingly implacable detail.

They were dating. And they were getting careless.

* * *

In a rare display of good judgment regarding their relationship, Tony and Ziva had approached the next step - dating – cautiously. In many ways they knew each other exceptionally well; could read moods, anticipate reactions. They were aware of strengths and flaws and had reached a certain, fledgling, depth of honesty. Nevertheless, that knowledge was incomplete in some aspects; as if they were beginning as virtual strangers. In slowly filling in the blanks, they discovered their compatibility extended beyond the limits of the Navy Yard. The professional link was not the glue which held them together. For the most part, the process of merging and becoming a couple was fun, revelatory and encouraging. On occasion it was somewhat explosive. Unfortunately, it was also highly addictive which meant the restrictions imposed by secrecy chafed.

"You do not need to protect me at work, Tony." Ziva opened what had become a depressingly recurrent discussion as they arrived at his apartment.

Her dislike of darkness was much lessened here – whether by his presence or being used to the surroundings Tony hadn't established yet. She stalked into the kitchen before switching on lights.

"I wasn't protecting you." - Walking into the bedroom, peeling off his jacket and hanging it in the closet.

"Well, OK, I was protecting you." He called back. "But, trust me if it'd been McGee in front of the door, I'd have pushed him clear if I thought he was gonna be in the line of fire."

Deceit is pernicious; even well-intentioned, innocuous, deceit. Since getting together, the pressure of being together, without letting anyone know they were together, had an acidic effect. It provided a concentrated drip which corroded their progression in other areas. The foundations upon which the next stage was constructed were wobbly and somewhat ill-formed. Adjusting to a new dynamic was complicated. Adjusting to that change - whilst not appearing to have re-arranged a single component - was a nightmare. The vague instability conveyed by 'what if Gibbs finds out' percolated through the relationship as it developed.

"It looks suspicious." Ziva flatly rejected his eminently reasonable justification.

Tony emptied his pockets onto the night-stand. "And it wouldn't look at all suspicious if I'd just stood there and let you take a bullet."

A trace of antagonism edged his voice. "I'll remember that next time."

Ziva stopped mid-way through uncorking the bottle of wine and walked purposefully toward Tony's location. "I was aware of the possibility, I had evaluated his options." – Bristling at his jibe and the tone of his remark. "I was fully prepared."

The formal declaration of her assessment was superfluous.

"Then maybe you could've shared, Zee-vah." This was an unjust criticism.

In truth, Tony had noticed Ziva's almost imperceptible slow breath and flex just prior to his impulsive shove. It was her unique reflex which – after facing so many potentially hazardous situations as colleagues – he recognized instantly. Where most would tense, Ziva relaxed. An indication she had sensed danger and clinically assumed operational mode; his cue. Tony had a similar signature for Ziva. The jokes remained but his voice would become softly serious. And he did tense; watchful determination dominating his demeanor. The unthinking synthesis of their investigative styles meant usually neither had to telegraph their intentions – except when the chances of seizing an advantage would be improved. Today's incident did not require such action.

Inwardly cursing the manifestation of the disagreeable mood, Tony designed his next acerbic comment for shutting down the topic. "Or does that look questionable too?"

The effort, not aided by the mocking tone, produced the opposite effect; escalation.

"There was no time." Ziva was right. And the dispassionate remark left him in no doubt she was asserting that fact.

To be fair, Tony's intervention hadn't been premeditated solely on the goal of saving Ziva. At that precise moment, it merely seemed like an expedient move. Nevertheless, the episode dragged conduct in the workplace into the limelight again. General socializing had become fraught. Rule #7 decreed 'always be specific when you lie' – inventing excuses for skipping the regular informal gatherings of co-workers was awkward. More importantly, they operated in an incestuous environment of overlapping jurisdictions and close ties. Whereas prior to dating, Tony and Ziva would be drawn together relatively unaffected by the opinions of others, now they were sensitive to what might be observed or who they could accidentally come across. Tony cultivated good relations with local law enforcement; that part of his life must be kept isolated. The relationship existed in an unnatural 'clean room' vaccuum.

"And you made the same argument about the bomb." Rather than leave the matter alone, Ziva illustrated her point by reiteration of a complaint – in a previous incarnation of the same dispute - made by Tony.

"That was different." – Meeting her outside the kitchen, Tony was irked by the resurrection.

"Really, Tony, how?" Taking the fastening from her braid, shaking her hair loose, Ziva's voice was slightly scornful of his convenient exculpatory distinction.

"'Cause I could've hit the deck." Tony responded in kind – patronizing as he underlined his reason. "Without the assist - after you'd yelled."

One positive element to their altered interaction was Tony and Ziva no longer permitted disagreements to linger unresolved. Issues were usually dealt with as they arose. Naturally, such behavior didn't always denote immediate peace. Their disparate personalities ensured plenty of fierce conflicts and debates. However, eventually, a compromise would be reached in the event no-one could be declared the outright winner.

"You brought up the New Year trip in the office." She broached the real source of tonight's quarrel.

Encountering their boss had been a disaster waiting to happen. That expectation did nothing to reduce the horror they both felt at seeing Gibbs whilst, essentially, in the middle of a damning dialogue. And, though it may have taken a little time, this discussion had been brewing ever since. The Gibbs problem was the exception to their newly acquired skills in arbitration. It was a festering thorn which periodically announced its presence. Stabbing their consciences and causing fights with increasing frequency. The trouble was the quandary's perennial, impenetrable character.

"Only because you won't give me a fucking answer." He impatiently undid his tie, tugging it off - clearly irritated by the exchange.

He wanted to change clothes and unwind; especially since he had no idea how long she'd stay tonight. Ziva never stayed the whole night; regardless of how late the hour. Tony thought it was weird but didn't challenge her action – thinking it was due to some unnamed anxiety which would pass. The reason was much simpler. She was mollifying her unease at deception with self-delusion; if they didn't start the day together, somehow it wasn't quite as terrible. By always returning home, Ziva created an imaginary principle upon which she could stand.

"Gibbs overheard us." She ignored his plea on the getaway and reverted to her main concern; making no attempt at disguising where she apportioned blame.

Tony countered by discrediting the unproven claim for his first line of defense. "You don't know that."

"Yes I do." Ziva was utterly convinced Gibbs was aware of the relationship. "He knows."

"You're being paranoid." He tried for casual reassurance, shrugging with a smile. "It was a couple of days ago and we're both still employed."

"No, Tony, I am not being paranoid." Definitely not reassured, she stubbornly repeated the worry. "He knows."

"OK, so he knows." Tony sighed, abandoning that strategy. "Of course he knows. I told you that already - he's Gibbs."

He was perplexed and disturbed by the continued struggle. He had been particularly vexed that Ben-Gidon and Liat were an item; no-one questioned their capabilities. Not one for excessive introspection, Tony had assumed once they were romantically involved, the rest would fall into place by way of a fairly straightforward, though mysterious, procedure. Comprehension the outside factors meant the feat wouldn't be managed that easily was dispiriting. He wanted to be with her, wake up with her and not have to pretend they were just good friends.

Moreover, the current situation was strangely unsatisfying. Normally, when it came to girlfriends, the chase was what held his interest before boredom took hold and he would become restless. For the first time in his life, he'd successfully wooed the woman he wanted and it wasn't enough. Tony was nagged by an absorbing desire for more and this realization was scaring the hell out of him; it smacked of commitment. Actual commitment: not a dimly conceived, theoretical future. This discovery, after officially dating Ziva for such a short time-span, was rattling.

"As I remember it, Zee-vah, you were the one who thought we could stop him from finding out." The disparaging comment was prompted by annoyance at Ziva's stance. And his own assessment of the evening's preordained end.

Since the issue had begun stirring trouble Tony had steadfastly insisted Gibbs would guess – her careful tactics for prevention notwithstanding. Ziva had only lately arrived at the conclusion; embracing it with the zeal of a recent convert. Stony silence ensued as each contemplated their next move.

Tony sought to redirect. "And, by the way, what is the answer on New Year?"

He decided to pursue his remedy for this and its sibling squabbles. "'Cause if you like the idea of Boston, there's a couple of 'phone calls I need to make."

"No." Despite being the same, solitary word, this time Ziva's answer was definitive. No they weren't going.

"No?" Tony took the news with a distinct lack of grace. "Because?"

"Because, Tony…." Her voice tightened as Ziva's temper sparked at his reaction, twisting the elastic and scrunchie from her hair.

"Wait, let me guess." He made a mock circle with his hand and his words were bitingly sarcastic. "Spins the wheel… Gibbs might find out?"

"Yes, if we are both missing at the same time, it will raise suspicion." – Although it was another pointed reminder of their predicament, she strove for calm.

The notion of spending four relaxed days, just the two of them, was a blissfully, alluring prospect. Ziva had unconsciously let the clock rundown on the window of opportunity. She couldn't bring herself to decline the temptation. Yet she was concerned over appearances which dictated caution. Ziva's delay meant the decision had been made for her; now it was too late to arrange separate leave at such short notice without it looking decidedly peculiar.

"You just said he knows." Tony smartly punctured her logic. "And, anyway, if Gibbs does know, he hasn't said anything."

Opting for another angle in an attempt to end the dispute, Tony moved closer. "So why don't we quit worrying about it for a long weekend?"

The endless round of Holiday parties contributed to Tony and Ziva's shared dissatisfaction at their plight. Attending functions whilst pretending they were unattached was unpleasant and exhausting. Watching others celebrate with spouses, boyfriends and girlfriends heightened discontentment. The Agency party was torture. Tony spent much of the evening trying not to gaze longingly at Ziva; who looked gorgeous. Ziva spent much of the evening trying not to look self-conscious every time she caught his eye. Staggering their departures with a decent time interval according to a pre-arranged plan - which faltered because Ziva became trapped talking to Vance. She was rescued by Ducky. When they finally escaped, Ziva's dress barely made it across his apartment's threshold. And, initially, they didn't make it past the hall table; which resulted in a note from disgusted-neighbor-next-door the following morning. Tony found that hugely entertaining. Nevertheless, it was ridiculously late before sleep beckoned and the day afterwards had been interminably long.

His voice was soothingly persuasive, nudging her with a charming grin. "I'll even let you pack clothes, mightn't let you wear them though."

This was a standard maneuver of which both Tony and Ziva were guilty. Often they would resolve – or rather avoid – this fight because one of them would instigate sex. Their inability to keep their hands of each other for any length of time was another area of the relationship which was working. Only it was functioning too well; adding to the stress. The difficulties of not touching - tricky before they started dating - were insignificant in comparison to the unfiltered, honed purgatory of the new set-up. It wasn't so much they would indulge in physical contact at the office – that wasn't their style. It was more the accepted prohibition they couldn't – under any circumstances. Like perpetually being kept waiting to open a Christmas present; and even perfectly innocent gestures of affection were pre-examined against the context for potential exposure.

Ziva clasped his hands, significantly refusing the offered diversion. "Because he will say something Tony."

A small smile crossed her face as she very firmly resisted the seduction. Ziva was absolutely earnest in pleading her case. "And when he does, the damage will be done."

"Then we'll deal with it when he does." Again, Tony was trying to defer.

"This was a mistake. We should not have…." She shook her head; almost remonstrating with herself. "We should have found an answer before we…."

"Before what, Zee-vah?" Hurt by her seeming depiction of their relationship as a behavioral aberration, the language of Tony's interruption was deliberately barbed. "Before I started screwing you?"

She stood staring at him, somberly holding his gaze. However, surprisingly, Ziva didn't strike back with her own brand of spite.

"I'm sorry." The apology was soft and sincere; he felt instant, horrible remorse for remark. Leaning in, he kissed the top of her head.

"Look, if we'd told him I'd be in Guam. Or you'd been in I-don't-know-where-the-fuck-it-is-istan." Extremely gifted in the art of Apologetics, Tony refocused on the stakes. By the introduction of mutual concern at the specter of separation, he aimed for temporary conciliation.

"You said we would work these problems out." There was a sad, disconsolate tone in her accusation.

They were failing - after barely two months. The outcome which was her deepest fear - that she would lose Tony and their previous, precious closeness - because of precipitous, headstrong surrender was gradually becoming reality. Ziva's apprehension was fed and intensified by her insecurities. All too easily she was relying on Tony's presence in her life – he had become, in a literal sense, her partner. The seemingly minor transformation from an inchoate yet constant bond, into a concrete relationship had happened with dizzying speed. Now it was disintegrating because of forces beyond their control. In relinquishing her emotional seclusion, Ziva recognized she had left herself vulnerable; this time the hurt would be truly dreadful. The anxiety compounded because it needn't happen; they could have maintained the status quo. Something, anything, would have been preferable to the looming promise of nothing.

"No, I said Gibbs would be trouble." Tony corrected sharply - splitting hairs over who said what and when was a really bad sign.

"And we are not sorting them out Tony." His admonishment moved Ziva out of reflection. Her retort was stinging as she encapsulated the crucial grounds for the constant quarrel.

"'Cause there's no good solution." His smile was uncertain in the face of Ziva's harsh charge.

"We come clean and the shit hits the fan." He held out his hands in resigned appeal. His fall-back position – they had no choice.

"Or we don't and are stuck in this goddamned 'Groundhog Day' without the humor or happy ending." Tony's levity was half-hearted, bordering on cynical.

She turned walking back into the kitchen. "That is not helpful."

Ziva was very unsettled over misleading Gibbs. His trust was valued and she hated violating that faith. The ramifications if he learned of the liaison by chance were marginally greater than if they informed him. The first scenario meant he would be displeased, betrayed and the team split apart. The second meant he would be displeased and the team split apart. Still, foreboding at the former concept had grown exponentially with the weeks.

"I don't see you coming up with any suggestions, Ziva." Frustration boiled in Tony's voice and he paced in the opposite direction.

"If you've any bright ideas, now'd be a real good time." – Having the same argument over and over again without providing any fresh alternatives in the matter was counter-productive. And it was exceedingly aggravating.

"We cannot continue like this Tony." She hesitated before articulating her strategy. "It is destructive."

Ziva looked away as she proposed radical blasphemy. "I think we should talk to him."

Tony was stunned.

"OK, OK." Tired of the conflict and unwilling to confront Gibbs, he resorted to passive aggressive capitulation. "Christ, if it'll get you to drop the fucking subject, I'll tell him first thing tomorrow."

He cocked his head with a sardonic smile. "Happy now?"

Ziva studied him speculatively for a few seconds, biting her lip.

"Grow up, Tony." She snapped one witheringly angry response, then picked up her bag from the counter and left.

The only other method used for terminating this conversation; execution performed by one of them walking away. Ominously, from Tony's perspective, this time Ziva didn't slam the door – merely closed it with an air of unflinching finality.

They were dating. More importantly, the fissures in the basis of their relationship were forming and widening under the strain.

* * *

**Huge thanks to everyone who has posted a review: also to all those who have me on their alert list. The thoughts and feedback are really appreciated and useful. So make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me likes, dislikes or it's dragged on long enough….**


	20. The Golden Rule

**A/N: I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 20 – Another even tinier time jump forward **

**The usual for background….**

* * *

"_The golden rule is that there are no golden rules."_

_George Bernard Shaw_

**January 2011**

One of McGee's New Year's resolutions was giving up in his efforts to figure out Tony and Ziva. He invoked the definition of insanity; doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. It was a sensible aim. Their relationship had always been totally incomprehensible beyond his basic premise that Tony and Ziva had a relationship. A crazily complex, eternal affinity which constantly swung between progression and regression: like a demoniacally possessed pendulum. Since the autumn, he had been aware the amplitude was diminishing; the gap between the arc's extreme points closing. He had no idea why, or how, nor whether the momentum would eventually cease as true equilibrium was attained. McGee's vow was broken on 3rd January – the first work day after the holiday. Clearly something had happened, a few days before the weekend, which altered the fluctuation and speed yet again.

Tony was pre-occupied and brooding. He stayed late and arrived early; despite a number of mornings when he was obviously nursing a ferocious hangover. There had been no bullish explanations for his delicate condition; no gleeful tales of hard partying. Ziva was strangely subdued and restrained. She looked terribly tired - apparently not sleeping well. And she spent an awful lot of spare hours at the Range. That might have been alarming if Tony and Ziva appeared angry with each other – but they didn't. A mournful vapor pervaded the atmosphere; almost as if someone or something had died. They still bickered over cases, suspects and daily irritations. However, McGee noticed there was a missing ingredient to the exchanges; one he couldn't quite identify. His only certain conclusion; the chemical formula was weird, very weird. It seemed as though a contaminant had been added which impeded the pre-supposed reactions. Nearly three weeks into the month, McGee was fully prepared to be certified as mentally unfit and ready for the lunatic asylum.

Tony and Ziva had been granted a stay of execution from Gibbs' wrath. Although his mood left neither of them in any doubt unsparing censure was imminent. Several factors combined and allowed the lucky reprieve. Partly because he had been too busy; his attentions focused elsewhere. Gibbs intended the dispensation of a full measure of controlled anger and disapproval in the dressing down. He didn't want constraints lessening the potency of his castigation. Partly because he wanted to consider any sanctions at his disposal; a verbal rebuke would be insufficient. He was sorely tempted to bust Tony down from Senior Agent and lengthen Ziva's period of probation. Their boss was sure he could achieve the punishments discreetly – without involving the bureaucrats. Gibbs believed such material reprimands would reinforce the message and be salutary lessons.

Mostly it was because, between solidifying his suspicions and the imposition of a course correction, he detected an alteration to Tony and Ziva's interactions. Like any good sniper he waited patiently – acquiring and assessing every available piece of intelligence - before taking his shot. He observed the change and noted the effects. And what he discovered surprised even Gibbs.

* * *

"Gibbs?" Ziva opened his front door.

Whilst he had attached a lock, it was still unused. The new fitting had been a simple, unyielding rejection of M. Allison Hart's advances; an example of subliminal messaging according to Gibbs.

"Down here." The voice sounded from below - the customary location of the basement.

Ziva walked to the kitchen, unpacked some bags and went in search of her boss. In common with a disproportionately large percentage of the population, Ziva was a sporadic visitor for Gibbs. Some came with bourbon, some with secret files, some with advice and some empty-handed. Ziva usually brought food. Their reasons were always the same; an off the record consultation, or comfort, or both. Since her return from Africa, she had made several appearances at his house. The first was an emotional expression of gratitude for her rescue, a heartfelt appeal for forgiveness and his renewed trust. She wanted to take back her place on the team.

Subsequent occasions were the result of her post-captivity adjustment. In some ways, they were kindred spirits and there was peaceful refuge from the struggle in the infrequent hours spent in Gibbs' home. He didn't question why Ziva had come, or press for information. Sometimes they barely spoke – Gibbs was content to let her heal in her own way. It was on one such evening, he had discovered the marks on her back. They became visible when she stretched for a tool. Gibbs matter-of-factly asked if they caused any discomfort now. When she shook her head, he patted her cheek and said nothing more. If she had wanted, Ziva knew she could have elaborated further. She didn't and that was good enough for Gibbs.

"I made dinner." - Standing in the doorway, at the top of the stairs, she announced the superficial purpose for her presence.

Inadvertently Ziva caused Gibbs' recall of another moment when she had stood in the same spot. And he remembered the look on Ziva's face, at the hospital, crying as she begged him to remember the dreadful truth - that she had killed her half-brother and saved his life.

Gibbs nodded. "How long?"

She thought before answering. "About thirty minutes." - Returning to the kitchen; the meal was already cooked. All Ziva needed to do was pull the final elements together.

Ziva was an excellent cook. She delighted in the entire process. It provided the outlet for a completely different, creative side of her nature. Tony made fun of her over the skill; declaring such a pastime was unsuitable for an assassin. That she should take up spear fishing or ice climbing. Or that she probably only practiced as a means of perfecting her poisoning technique. For all his teasing, Tony loved just sitting and talking to her whilst she worked. He found watching her in the kitchen incredibly sexy and usually appreciated the results of Ziva's culinary expertise. Except when she over-indulged her adventurous streak - in which case Tony made sacrifices to the pizza delivery gods and avoided Ziva until all sharp implements were secured.

Gibbs wiped his hands on a rag and began methodically cleaning and putting away the tools he'd been using. Always meticulous in his work, the familiar routine supplied thinking space. He was being manipulated – not maliciously – but manipulated nonetheless. Ziva obviously wanted to talk about whatever was going on between her and Tony. By coming to him, at the house, she was removing the discussion from the official territory of the Navy Yard. She was beginning with a sort of unspoken request for 'permission to speak freely' on the matter; a soldier's tactic.

He joined her in the kitchen. "Smells good." – Washing his hands at the sink. "Heard from Eli?"

Ziva was setting out napkins and cutlery. "He called at Hanukkah." She shrugged with a hollow smile. "It is what families do."

Gibbs half-smiled in empathy at her empty, forlorn statement. Eli had been father, boss and handler. Puppet-master and match-maker; there had been too much exploitation, too much injury and too many blurred lines. Despite a tiny move towards reconciliation, it would never be a comfortable - or healthy - father and daughter relationship. Ziva had said Eli was all but dead to her – the conviction was meant.

He pulled two beers out of the refrigerator, handed one to Ziva and took the plate she was holding in return.

"Tastes good." Gibbs tried a mouthful.

"I hope so." Ziva carried her plate over, sitting opposite him, at the kitchen table. "Was Paul Simmons' recruitment paperwork submitted satisfactorily?"

Gibbs took a drink; he wasn't fooled by the small talk. "He's signed up."

Not given to beating around the bush - or anything else for that matter - he pinned her with a searching look. "What's on your mind?"

Her head dropped as she smoothed her napkin in her lap. "I wish to talk to you."

Gibbs watched as she fidgeted, before prodding. "What about, Ziva?"

It was a Saturday. During the day, whilst preparing the food, she had painstakingly created a defense for the relationship. Ziva used the physical and mental occupation as a distraction from the ache of missing Tony. She devised a plan of positive action on their behalf. Unhappy over deceiving Gibbs and even unhappier at the distance widening between herself and Tony, Ziva was determined to remedy both situations. She was not naturally inclined to passivity and the past weeks had strengthened her resolve that talking with Gibbs was the only rational option. Her arguments had all seemed logical and sensible when made in her kitchen. Sitting in Gibbs' kitchen placed a more unappealing light on the endeavor.

She might be on the verge of losing her job. Worse, she was confessing to betraying his trust. Ziva hesitated. "Tony and I are seeing each other." – Raising her head and meeting the steady blue stare.

"We were dating." The amendment was made with a little rueful smile. At present, Ziva didn't know whether they even had a relationship; if she were going into battle for a lost cause.

Gibbs inclined his head. "That's a problem Ziva." His voice was very quiet, almost regretful.

"I know." Ziva's agreement was neutral.

It was a problem and there was no point in pretending it wasn't. Nevertheless, it was one she felt could be worked out. One she desperately needed to work out.

"It's unacceptable." Gibbs began the admonishment.

"It has worked so far..." Ziva's interjection offered a partial truth. The relationship was a success; except for the breaking Gibbs' Rule element.

"If doesn't work?" His forthright question halted the rebuttal. There was no pause for a reply. "It's gets messy. Trust is damaged."

He and Jenny had been a brilliant team. It ended badly – very badly - and Rule #12 was born. The shadow of their affair and its aftermath fell across years and even darkened her tenure as Director. Moreover, the ban's wisdom was rooted in more than just his personal background. Time and again, Gibbs had observed workplace entanglements start, fail and cause long-term hardships for the participants and their colleagues. Tony and Ziva were a peerless team and their encounters were sufficiently charged as it stood. Imprudent actions and ill-disciplined desires could ruin their investigative partnership. And he didn't relish the combustible, toxic fall-out which would have to be endured.

"There need not be harm." She denied his assertion by declaring that nothing was inevitable.

"It's dangerous." Gibbs was unmoved. "For you, for DiNozzo: and for the team." His annoyance was growing.

"Only if we are not aware of the risks." Ziva clung steadfastly to her point.

She sought to convey the notion that dating Tony was not inherently wrong, just the circumstances. These were variables which could be taken into account. "And that is not the case."

"I rely on you, McGee relies on you." Now Gibbs was angry.

She was dismissing the seriousness too easily. "It's not just about you and DiNozzo." He snapped the reprimand.

"What if one of you misses something? Or doesn't think, because you're distracted?" She opened her mouth to speak but there was barely any delay as he fired the stern questions.

Ziva's eyes slipped away as she stoically weathered the onslaught. "What if someone's hurt; killed maybe?"

His objections were all valid and he was listing them with coolly irate, marked emphasis. "What then?""

"This isn't Mossad, Ziva." Gibbs' voice became quiet again – though the anger was unabated - as he continued with his lecture.

Gibbs had many grounds for disapproving of her father. One of which was Eli David's moral compass; in his treatment of Ziva, in operating his Agency. Gibbs had a no-nonsense integrity which clashed with Eli's more flexible interpretation of ethics. The two men operated in the same world - at differing levels – and Eli's position was unenviable. Yet Gibbs rejected the popular notion the most useful thing about a principle is how quickly it may be surrendered for convenient advantage. His personal justice meter might be at odds with some models, but he never pressed reset in the pursuit of trust or favor. Mossad had caused him considerable grief over the years. As far as he was concerned, the lax approach toward inter-personnel liaisons was a prime example of why.

"There are rules for a reason." He fixed her with another penetrating look. "Rivkin was your co-worker."

Ziva stiffened slightly at the reference to her former partner. "Yes he was."

This was an exceedingly difficult subject; painful for her to contemplate. Additionally, Ziva knew there was a more than a hint of substance to the argument. She was trying to convince her boss that a relationship between partners could be acceptable. Yet her conduct and the consequences from the last occasion she was involved in such a relationship seemed to invalidate Ziva's claim. She had been blinded by emotions and committed a grievous error as a result. Pushing the food around with a fork, Ziva stuck to the belief that frank opinions were her best hope.

"But this is not the same." – Looking him in the eye. Ziva believed the statement with all her heart. Nevertheless, it was a vaguely pathetic excuse in light of the accusation.

"You were sleeping with Rivkin." Gibbs Moly-coated his slugs; in his service career, and in civilian life for interrogations. Improving the deadly aim and ensuring his target was cleanly and sharply hit.

"That's your lesson, right there." Impatiently, he slid his plate to the side.

"I was wrong, misguided." Ziva flinched at the almost brutal criticism but her gaze never wavered.

"Naïve." She quietly admitted her guilt. Seized by the fear Michael Rivkin's malign influence could still destroy her happiness - even after death.

"Michael was not interested in me." There was a formal, touching dignity as she relived the hurt and humiliation. "I was an added bonus for him; a useful diversion."

"You've always sailed close to the wind." Gibbs growled. His ire softened slightly by Ziva's candid testimony - her evident sensitivity on the matter. "And it's always been trouble."

He had known, one day, he would have this conversation with one of them. "That entire Rivkin, Saleem, Somalia disaster was because of you and DiNozzo."

Despite the charge, Ziva sensed a kinder shift and stated the obvious. "Tony and I were not sleeping together then."

"Look how it turned out." Her timing was misjudged and Gibbs responded gruffly.

"You almost died." His blunt comment pointed out the equally obvious.

Ziva stubbornly held her ground. "That was not because we were in a relationship."

Gibbs came from the 'what's done is done' school for examining past behavior. Generally speaking, he felt if it couldn't be undone, there was no profit in wasting time and energy reflecting on the incident. Second-guessing or wishing outcomes could be altered were only suitable if they achieved actual benefit. That attitude notwithstanding, fleeting re-consideration crept into his mind. The debacle might have ended differently if he hadn't worked so diligently at keeping Tony and Ziva separated. It was a miniscule chink in the profession of strict adherence to his creed.

"He's a Senior Agent." Gibbs altered his angle of attack to the concept of professional propriety. "He should know better."

"He does." – A faint look of fond exasperation flickered across her features. Tony might well know better. Chances were it wouldn't necessarily stop him from doing it anyway.

"He outranks you. It's inappropriate." - Firmly reiterating the general criticism in terms of Agency standards.

"But we have been working together for over five years." She countered swiftly - having included this aspect in her earlier deliberations.

"Tony is not in a position to coerce me." He did have more charm than any living thing had a right to possess and Ziva was powerless to resist. However, that susceptibility was in their private realm. In their work-life, out of sheer fierce competitive traits, she would never submit.

"Rule #12, Ziva. They're the terms on my team." His voice was so quiet. It belied the gravity of the pronouncement - the deal-breaker. It was his call and Gibbs prohibited dating within his unit.

"Yes, Gibbs, I know." Ziva nervously addressed the biggest issue.

"And yes we should not have broken the rule, and we should have told you sooner, before….before we started sleeping together and…." - The words all running into each other, in the rushed justification.

"And you've been lying about it - both of you." He didn't condone dishonesty.

Exemptions were under exceptional circumstances; such as direct instructions from the Almighty and even then Gibbs would probably demand irrefutable proof. Their duplicity was a disturbing breach of faith.

"Yes." Again Ziva did not dodge the malfeasance. "We made a mistake but….it just happened." Unconsciously repeating Tony's description as the scenario replayed.

"I'll bet it did." There was almost grim amusement in Gibbs' remark. He was, after all, still a human being.

"Since when?" – A test of his intuition's accuracy.

"Since October." – Trying not to appear like a teenager whose parents just found out they hadn't been writing a book report at their best friend's house. "It started in October."

He nodded internal approval at his perceptions. "And now?"

Gibbs had picked up on the previous sadness in her voice and raised the topic; establishing the present situation. Ziva stood up and retrieved dessert.

"We had a fight." She gave a shy smile at his wryly cocked eyebrow. Tony and Ziva not fighting would be a noteworthy occurrence, not the other way around.

Shaking her head and tactfully glossing over any implication the conflict was really Gibbs' fault. "A different kind. We argued over dating, over Rule #12, over us."

"It has not affected the discharge of our duties." Ziva highlighted the virtue in their behavior.

Rule #12 had been violated - maybe she and Tony were no longer a couple – but the team had remained intact. Their collective skills and cohesion untarnished by the events. As she returned to the table, Ziva carried on stressing the relationship had not provoked any untoward happenings in the office.

"None of it. Dating or, or…" Unwilling to utter the possibility it was over. "We have not permitted it to interfere with our conduct and…."

"Why tell me now?" Gibbs interrupted.

That intercession was not required. He was extremely impressed by the manner in which they had managed both the dating and the break-up. In all honesty, he had to acknowledge there had been no discernible impact on their professional competency. The only symptom of the current struggle was they looked thoroughly miserable – like they were incomplete. Tony was tormented and Ziva haunted.

Of greater relevance to the conversation was the clear suggestion Ziva was hoping the relationship would be repaired. That held ramifications for the future.

Dessert was apple pie. Years before, Gibbs had mentioned his first wife made a great apple pie. Ziva, struck by the rare, wistful note in his voice, took it upon herself to make Gibbs apple pies occasionally. They would never be as good Shannon's – Ziva knew that – not even if the ghost of Shannon had helped bake them. The pie was allegorical – a representation of everything Gibbs had lost. Ziva understood that loss far more than any of the other team members. Growing up in a land under permanent menace had instilled the familiarity from an early age. She had killed numerous times, been an eye witness for Death's countless, varied guises. And Ziva had confronted her own possible demise. This sense formed part of her bond with Gibbs. The apple pie had become a ritual; a subtle nod to the reality he was the closest thing she had to a father. She wasn't quite an orphan and he knew someone who would make him apple pies.

"Because it is preferable to be honest, sometimes better to apologize if one is incorrect." - Carefully requesting amnesty with a clever reinvention of one of his rules.

Ziva was simultaneously apologizing after the fact and seeking permission before further development. "Because it is important…."

She paused, taking a breath. Expressing emotions publically was a strained, awkward experience. "Because he is important."

Ziva had never articulated – to anyone - how much Tony meant.

"What'd you want me to say, Ziva?" Gibbs sighed in resignation, shaking his head.

"That we have your approval." Finally the discussion had reached the vital moment. Ziva waited, looking at Gibbs, with an expression of hope and apprehension on her face.

"And if you don't?" A terse, direct inquiry implying he wouldn't be pressured.

"Then there are no disciplinary proceedings for Tony." Ziva's solution was simple.

The meaning was explicit. She didn't wish Tony's career jeopardized by her confiding in Gibbs - or their actions. Ziva was trying to protect him. Nearly two years ago, Ziva had asked Gibbs to choose between them. She would not make the same mistake.

"And if one of us must be transferred, that it be me." There was no drama in her reply. She merely laid out her plan with detached practicality.

Gibbs absorbed the significance. Like him, the team was essentially Ziva's family – the only one she had. Yet she was willing to give that up for Tony. The team provided a valued support network. However, no-one could handle Ziva like Tony – because he understood Ziva. She would start from scratch, all over again, and re-build her life if required in order to retain that feeling. Gibbs recognized the perverse irony. In addition to indistinct allegiances and unbalanced judgments, Rule #12 existed so that his team wouldn't fracture. If he enforced the rule, his team would fracture anyway. Gibbs had good reason for the assumption Tony would make the same choice. Whatever he decided, Gibbs was likely to lose at least one constituent member from the MCRT.

Eating his dessert, Gibbs wondered how he would have behaved if someone prevented him from being with Shannon. With poignant affection he imagined her reaction if commanded not to be with him. In that second, Gibbs made his ruling. Although not a sentimental man, he was not unsympathetic. The combination of Ziva's sincerity in attempting persuasion and the memory of his dead wife's apple pie chipped away at his tough approach.

"Sit." Gibbs placed a hand on her shoulder as Ziva gathered dishes. "You cooked."

He had a dishwasher. Ziva doubted he used the machine and had a pretty strong suspicion he wouldn't know how it operated. Gibbs began running water.

"Then I will dry." The process would be quicker with two.

After making them coffee, Gibbs disappeared into another room for a minute. On his return, he handed Ziva a folded letter.

Puzzled, she read the contents. It was a notice of re-assignment in Tony's name and already approved by Vance.

"Please, Gibbs, please do not…." Ziva's eyes registered shock and there was a hint of panic in her voice.

Perhaps her coming here had supplied the requisite confirmation of the transgression and, thus, she would be costing Tony his job.

Gibbs tapped at a paragraph on one of the pages and calmly cut off the impassioned plea. "Ziva."

She speed-read the pertinent piece and then looked quizzically at him. "But why?" – Confused rather than enlightened by the revelation.

The indicated section on the document outlined the rationale behind the recommendation. It had been requested - Tony was asking for a transfer.

Worryingly the boss seemed to have no answer. "He didn't talk to me." – Shrugging with phlegmatic disappointment.

Tiredness, nail-biting tension from the inconclusive debate and sudden surprise over the new development eroded Ziva's reserves. She glanced at Gibbs – the frantic thoughts and anxiety visible in her frown.

Noticing her composure slipping, Gibbs smiled. The blue eyes were full of reassurance. "You're the one dating him, Ziva."

He evenly bestowed benediction on the night's original quest - by way of an order. "Fix it."

Vance had given Gibbs a 'heads-up' on Tony's intentions when it became clear the team leader was ignorant of the move. Still recovering from his wounds, he was in no mind to tolerate further disruption to his Agency. The Director didn't know what was going on, he didn't care. Any transition period for Tony's replacement must be kept at a minimum; the MCRT was too high-profile to be one short for an extended period. Gibbs refused to yield his Senior Agent without challenge. Aside from genuine affection for Tony, respect admiration for his abilities, there were practical concerns. McGee wasn't ready for the post. Ziva was still a 'probie' – it wouldn't be possible to fast-track her progress to fill the vacancy.

He had ambushed Ziva with the news deliberately. Her reaction was authentic - which confirmed his instincts. They weren't conspiring and threatening dual resignations from his team in a concerted rebellion. Reverting to their extraordinary gift for non-existent communication, Tony and Ziva had - quite independently - chosen each other; forsaking all else. He conceded their devotion was remarkable – and inscrutable. Somehow, Ziva derived security from a man whose idea of excessive commitment meant the same woman two nights running. And, equally inexplicable, Tony was anchored by a woman whose volatile, contradictory temperament made no sense to the rest of the world.

Gibbs didn't share his gut's appraisal of Tony's motivations with Ziva. He had tacitly removed the impediment, the rest they had to figure out by themselves.

* * *

**Many, many thanks to everyone who has posted a review: also to all those who have me on their alert list. The thoughts and feedback are really appreciated and useful. So make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me what worked, what didn't or I've lost the plot….**


	21. Nothing Left

**A/N: I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 21 – I have no idea how NCIS organizes itself in real life – my story, my rules!**

**The usual for background….**

* * *

"_I love you with so much of my heart that there is none left to protest."_

_William Shakespeare_

**January 2011**

Assumptions are never a good idea. Initially, armed with the belief they had overcome their obstacle, Tony and Ziva had made the assumption the other would somehow – probably by telepathy - know what the other was intending. Naturally, it wasn't quite that simple - which triggered instability. For over a week since her conversation with Gibbs, Ziva had tried to find an opportunity to talk to Tony. Her aim was hampered by the fact Tony, clearly, didn't want to talk to Ziva. With the usual hectic pace of work and because he never seemed to be alone, Tony managed to elude her efforts at creating a meeting. Poor McGee had inadvertently scuppered her single, best chance by stumbling into Observation and announcing her presence was required upstairs. For the first time since he'd known Ziva, McGee actually feared for his safety when she spun around to face him. The rectitude of his errand seemed a poor shield against the glare which greeted his entrance. Moreover, Tony was missing from the Navy Yard for three and a half days and into the next weekend. Ostensibly a mini-break; Ziva knew better. He was visiting his new placement. And Tony wasn't answering his 'phone. This last provoked all the self-righteous indignation of a guilty conscience. Ziva hadn't taken any of his calls after their fight.

McGee wasn't foolish enough to make any assumptions about them. And, though the mood within the unit had changed, it remained peculiar. Tony seemed to be avoiding Ziva and Gibbs. Gibbs seemed to be displeased with Tony and watching Ziva. Ziva seemed to be simultaneously unhappy with Tony and expecting something from him whilst mindful of Gibbs' attention. McGee was the only one exempt from the labyrinth of interactions. He was very relieved and as usual slightly baffled. McGee felt as if someone were holding a glass barrel of Nitroglycerin over a granite surface – from a great height. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath and waiting.

* * *

"Gibbs knows." Ziva's voice sounded from behind Tony in the parking lot. She had pulled off her stealth maneuver again.

He was heading toward his car at the end of the day.

"Goddamn it, Zee-vah." He cocked his head, cursing under his breath at the unexpected discussion. "For once in your life, please, just let it go."

It was a heartfelt appeal. With much to occupy his thoughts, Tony really didn't want to re-ignite the conflagration which had instigated all the difficulties.

"It? Or you?" There was a sharp edge to the inquiry.

She didn't mean to be so antagonistic. Yet, over the past days, Ziva had too much time to contemplate the ramifications of Tony's behavior. The results were frightening and that stress manifested itself in her customary defense mechanism.

The comment stopped him in his tracks.

"I wasn't the one who walked out, Zee-vah." - Recognizing the combative tone of her voice and that she was spoiling for a fight.

"We were supposed to discuss these problems." The reproach was more than slightly unjust – given her total communications black-out. Nevertheless, Ziva launched another preemptive strike.

"I tried." Tony's reply was wary and he resumed his progress toward the car.

"You didn't seem that interested." He blocked her attack; refusing to be drawn.

Ziva followed him; a few paces farther back. "And so you are running away."

Her observation was laced with sharp spite. Ziva was plagued by the notion she was the impetus which had prompted Tony's request; and not in a good way. The wraith of insecurity fabricated responsibility. That she had personally engineered her loss. That her suggestion they confront Gibbs had appeared as forced commitment. And Tony didn't do commitment; he was taking evasive action.

The accusation, hinting at moral cowardice, stung and Tony slowly halted and turned around.

"That's fucking rich - coming from you." His criticism was quietly scornful and the message was unmistakable – if she wanted an argument he was more than willing and eminently capable of supplying one.

They stood staring each other down in a minute of tense silence. Then Tony walked away again.

"How'd you find out anyway?" He dug in a coat pocket for the car keys.

His question was sparked by genuine curiosity. Tony had been meticulous in not leaving incriminating evidence lying around on his desk. Ensuring that any 'phone calls and the two conferences with Vance were scheduled after the squad room had emptied.

"Gibbs." Ziva dispassionately revealed her source.

"When?" A certain amount of intuitive alarm crept into Tony's mind as he switched to his other pocket.

He was disturbed by the discovery the two people who shouldn't know about his transfer – yet - were fully apprised of that transfer.

"Last week. I went to talk to him about the situation…." Her collected, disapproving manner altered and Ziva hesitated nervously in the confession. "….about us"

Admitting to the relationship made it factual. It would exist in the outside world and Ziva dreaded that could be the very contingency Tony was fleeing. She might have sounded the death knell for them.

Tony moved to his jacket pockets. "What the fuck did you do that for?"

The frustration in his demand was obvious. He had tried so hard to keep Ziva out of the scheme – to protect her position from Gibbs' wrath – and she'd willfully gone and embroiled herself regardless.

"Because someone had to, Tony, and you would not." She snapped back the rebuke. Mistakenly believing his irritation confirmed her worries. He wanted out.

"Because there's no point." Thoroughly pissed off, he raised his eyes heavenward and shook his head. "And it doesn't matter now anyway."

"When were you going to tell me?" Ziva reverted to counter-attack. "Or weren't you?"

"For Christ's sake, of course I was gonna tell you." Tony's voice held barely checked anger.

In truth, he hadn't decided when or how he would inform Ziva. Certainly not like this; in an atmosphere of verbal skirmishing and acrimony. The knowledge of the unfavorable circumstances was annoying and drove his response.

"Were you going to tell me it was Vance's decision?" She persisted with the charged topic. "That you had orders?"

Although the barrier of outrage was crumbling and emotion was becoming apparent in her voice.

"No." – His exasperated denial implying – quite correctly - the suggestion was ridiculous.

"Then why did you not tell me?" Ziva's next inquiry was more controlled and very direct.

Reaching his car, Tony renewed the methodical search for his keys. "I just told you, I was gonna say something…." – Sighing in resignation. "I needed to figure some stuff out first."

"Such as?" She hovered a few feet away from him.

He abandoned the sequential inventory of his pockets. "You have my keys."

Ziva had bumped into him that afternoon; not long before he left. There were two cases on-going. The one Tony was working had been wrapped up – freeing him for an early departure. Ziva was chasing down a lead in the unfinished investigation. She had slithered between him and Ducky whilst they were chatting by the elevator. The contact had surprised him – the only time they'd touched since just after Christmas. Distracted by her body fleetingly against his, her scent and the feel of her breath on his skin, Tony had lost his point – much to Ducky's amusement – and hadn't given the event a second thought. Until now; when he was unable to locate his keys.

"Yes." - Coolly unapologetic in ratification of his complaint.

"Hand them over." Tony's instruction was firm.

He swung around; beckoning with his fingers for compliance. "Now Zee-vah."

"No." Ziva's mutiny was equally unflinching. "Such as?" - Prodding for a reply to her inquiry.

Unless she surrendered them, Tony knew physical force would be the only way to retrieve the keys.

He turned back away from her. "An answer. I was trying to find way out…." – Tailing off uncertainly.

If there were a tournament for the wrong selection of words, at the wrong moment, Tony and Ziva would be the undisputed world champions. And, currently, on the basis of this exchange, they were zeroing in on their sixth consecutive title. Ziva took his remark as indicative of a desire for ending the relationship permanently.

"And this is your escape?" Tony wasn't looking at her; otherwise he would have noticed the strained shadow which appeared in Ziva's eyes.

"Yeah." Propping himself with his hands on the car roof. "Because this isn't….." He left the reason unfinished.

She stepped a little closer. "Why did you not talk to me, Tony?" - Striving for clinical analysis to replace the hurt.

Tony shifted uncomfortably. "I guess I was waiting 'til it was a sure thing."

He had delayed telling her whilst he established the move as definite. Hoping he would be able to provide her with a complete picture and a logical outline of his actions. The outcome he hadn't relished was this one; a half-baked, impromptu revelation because he'd been trapped and caught off-guard.

"I heard yesterday, job's mine if I want it." The news should have been welcome. Unfortunately, their current moods denoted it seemed likely to cause further strife.

"And you do?" Ziva carefully posed the question to which she was extremely reluctant to hear the answer.

"Yeah." Tony nodded. "I can't do this anymore." His sounded weary - almost regretful.

"You would leave?" She bit her lip, the words a little shaky as Ziva fought back the rising tide of distress.

Tony caught the note of undisguised injury and upset in her voice and instantly realized his error. She believed he was abandoning her; fitting the projected profile which had caused Ziva so much harm.

He faced her. "No, not leave Zee-vah."

"Jesus." – Trying to reassure her and explain at the same time – with mixed success. "I'm not leaving. Not the way you think at any rate."

She frowned in unconvinced confusion. "Then why did you request a transfer?"

"I found a solution, maybe not a perfect one but it might be enough…" Tony's smile was slightly optimistic.

"It's Kings Bay, the sub. Base - in Georgia…." – Shrugging philosophically as he conceded the distance. "…Christ, it's practically in Florida…."

"I know." Ziva interrupted; still diffident but intrigued by the development.

"It'd mean about a six hour drive at weekends." He began deliberately. "'We'd have to hook up somewhere around Raleigh….that's kinda halfway…and there's always flying."

Leaning casually against the car, he continued. "Winter, bad weather, that might be tricky….And with work, it's not always gonna be possible to see each other."

"I'd be a team leader – of me and one other guy so it's kinda lateral in terms of career." There was distinct disappointment as he stated the downside. Everyone knew Tony was Gibbs' successor.

"Next one Stateside is Pensacola and that's too far. Or then there's Naples and that's way too far unless you would've come to Italy with me as my translator and…." Here Tony stopped – suddenly conscious that would involve Ziva accompanying him in the move.

"Vance reckons Mike Watson's gonna retire in a couple of years, so maybe I could come back to D.C. and we'd already be in a relationship….." He looked at her quizzically. "And I'd be on a different team - not the MCRT – anyway, so Gibbs couldn't object."

Tony's voice was a blend of practical persuasion and an appeal for back-up; unsure of her reaction. "I guess he probably would but there wouldn't be much he could do about it, right?"

"It'd be tough and the long-distance thing isn't great…." In conceiving the idea, his greatest concern had been the damaging effects of unpleasant separation. The toll inflicted by the tiresome chore of endless travel. "But it's do-able….At least, I think it is…."

"I mean it's gotta be better than this, 'cause this….this is…." He became more tentative in attempting to articulate why he was considering such drastic upheaval.

"So please tell me you still have a job; weekend commuting's gonna be an expensive pain-in-the-ass." Tony's faint grin illustrated his lack of confidence.

Acutely aware that was the possibly the longest speech he'd ever made to a woman – in justification of anything. And it was definitely the most sincere.

Ziva was staring intently at him, amazed by her misjudgment and touched by the determination in his approach.

"Well, aren't you gonna say anything?" - Slightly incredulous she was taking an indecently long time to put him out of his misery.

"I could be in Raleigh in less than five hours." - Tilting her head with a smile and announcing playful approval.

Tony grinned in relief. "Yeah and I'd be on first name terms with every cop in every other country from bailing you out."

Then he pushed for a proper assessment. "So what do you think?"

"I think..." She walked over, placing a hand on his chest, and looked up at him. "I think, that when I told you to grow up, I did not mean you should try to do it all at once." – Bending his head down and brushing her lips against his as she gravely acknowledged his gesture.

"You weren't specific." He chided; returning the kiss and sliding his arms around her.

"I can work without you." An odd expression crossed his features. He awkwardly glanced away from Ziva's gaze, then back again.

Tony's grip tightened and rested his forehead against hers. "I can't…."

He was going to say "I can't live without you" – but he had said that before. Whilst the statement was significant and the sentiment candid: it was ambiguous, somehow inconclusive. Many vague meanings could be attached. In reflecting on their dilemma, Tony had been forced to evaluate his feelings for Ziva and the extent of what he truly desired from their relationship. There were three words he never said – as a personal principle. They were a loaded promise which might not be kept with all the ensuing heartache from breach of that trust. They carried responsibilities and commitments which depended upon people and thus were fallible. Tony had a vast array of affectionate and loving terminology but he never – ever - uttered that one all-important phrase. When girlfriends asked – and they all invariably did – 'why don't you tell me you love me?' it was roughly interpreted by his universal translator as 'I think we should break up.' Ziva had never asked. Tony wanted to believe it was because she knew. And was terrified she didn't care enough to ask.

Raising his head slightly, Tony broke the rule of a lifetime with soft seriousness. "I love you Zee-vah."

His eyes steadily held hers when he made the gentle, earnest declaration. Although new to the experience, it seemed only polite to look someone in the eye if you were going to tell them you loved them.

"I know." Ziva nestled closer. Her smile conveyed comforting comprehension and acceptance.

Such a grand romance should have reached resolution on a spring afternoon with all the cherry blossoms as a back-drop. Or, perhaps, it could be a winter's day when D.C. was frosted with a perfect snowfall. It might have been a warm summer's evening with a full moon bathing proceedings in silvery light. Maybe it could have been on crisp autumn morning against vivid splashes of fall color. However, it didn't. Instead it happened on a dank, gloomy and rather drizzly Tuesday evening – in a parking lot.

"And if my moving to Cuba is what it takes to give us a shot then I'll do it." He warily reinforced the rationale behind seeking re-assignment.

Ziva tried exceedingly hard not to laugh at the overly dramatic geographic description. "Georgia is not Cuba Tony."

"Might just as fucking well be." - Morosely ignoring the correction – gently kissing her neck. Tony viewed anywhere from below Fredericksburg to the tip of Argentina as generally 'south.'

"We do not need to rush our decision…." Ziva's murmured efforts at commiseration were thwarted as the kisses grew stronger. Her hands grasped the lapels of his coat and Tony swiveled them around – pressing her against the car.

Finally, she pulled her mouth away. "Tony, we are at the Navy Yard." – Slightly breathless, Ziva removed his hand from her back where it had slipped under her shirt.

"Well, Zee-vah, if you'd give me the goddamned keys we could take this someplace else." Tony muttered into her ear.

"It is unlikely you would find them there." - Firmly arresting the progress of the other hand which was flirting dangerously with the button of her cargoes.

Tony and Ziva were in a deliciously pleasant situation. What they were doing was thoroughly enjoyable – starved of physical affection for what seemed like an eternity – their bodies were melting into each other. They were unwilling to move. Yet it was rapidly reaching an unsatisfying level. And escalation would probably necessitate Security's intervention - with a bucket of cold water.

He grinned wickedly. "Worth a try."

Ziva produced his keys, fiddling with them. "I have some paperwork to finish up….for Gibbs?"

She looked up at him questioningly. If they were to appease Gibbs' standards for professionalism, then ditching work for the nearest private space – though an exquisitely tempting prospect – wasn't sensible.

"OK, So I'll pick you up later." Tony understood.

"No." Ziva paused; thinking. "I need to go home first. I will meet you at your apartment, when I am done?"

"Sure." He was a little puzzled but content for Ziva to organize her schedule.

* * *

The mutual strategy for behaving sensibly carried over into the night. Tony and Ziva went to dinner after she completed her day – before having sex. Both aware some crucial choices were yet to be made. It was their first sanctioned date. The realization manifested itself in a totally different ambience. They weren't wondering who might see them. There was no pressure from erratic time-tables. And the spirit of Gibbs was no longer sitting at the table like an invisible third guest. Menacing the encounter and increasing the underlying tension.

"I missed you." She leaned forward, resting her chin on clasped hands.

"Zee-vah, you saw me every single day." Tony grinned good-naturedly.

"Still, I missed you….I missed this." Ziva carried on; her voice wistful. If he left, these nights would be severely limited. "What if we could date and you did not have to move to Georgia?"

He glanced at her curiously. "Then my year just got a whole lot better."

The comment was made with feeling. He didn't want to give up D.C.; he didn't want to give up being Senior Agent on the premier team, in the nation's capital. He would – for Ziva.

"Do you not wish to know what Gibbs said?" Her conversation with their boss had been overlooked when the dispute boiled and completely forgotten as it settled.

"Let me guess." Tony could perform a reasonable impersonation of Gibbs. "Rule #12 Ziva."

She laughed. "Yes." - Studying him for a second. "Would you like me to tell you what else?"

"Not really." - Grimly assuming the worst.

Ziva was undeterred. "That he does not approve."

"Figures." That was absolutely predictable as Gibbs' stance on the matter.

"That we lied to him." Tony winced at the truth. "That it is dangerous, inappropriate and can damage trust between us."

Tony's response was verging on the cynical. "Like he's a real success in the relationship department."

The iniquity of his love-life being dictated by a man with an abysmal track record of failure grated enormously.

"That I was sleeping with Michael…." Ziva hesitated and her eyes sought Tony's. "I should have learned my lesson. What happened to me was because we were emotionally involved."

Tony reached across the table, taking her hand in sympathy. He appreciated that raising the subject must have come at a price for Ziva. Annoyed with Gibbs; regulating discipline didn't mean he had to be so tough or insensitive.

She played with his fingers. "That he's mad at us – especially you - for not talking to him."

Ziva smiled ruefully with the next item on the list. "That we have always been trouble."

"Only 'cause he's so fucking unreasonable." – Aggrieved and contesting the depiction.

Gibbs was his mentor. Tony couldn't imagine a better role model. He held Gibbs in the highest esteem and was extraordinarily loyal - except for his resentment at the hands-off restriction with regard to Ziva. As far as Tony was concerned, the prohibition constituted cruel and unusual punishment.

Ziva had carefully replayed Gibbs' lecture. Partly it was because they both needed to absorb his reasons and reflect on the potential consequences. Partly because she was enjoying teasing Tony; she also possessed a sense of devilment.

"And that I must prevent from you going…." - Quietly triumphant in proclaiming her victory. "….because we are together."

"What the hell did you say to him?" Tony sat back - surprised by the news.

"That you were important…." She smiled sweetly.

"Only important?" He raised an eyebrow in quizzical protest.

Ziva tartly rejected the perception of an insult. "I was speaking with Gibbs."

"Point taken." – Nodding in acquiescence.

"And that I would leave, rather than be without you." With solemn simplicity, Ziva affirmed Tony's place in her affections.

Tony smiled wryly. In their efforts to solve the problem, they had arrived at the same conclusion – from characteristically disparate angles.

"Why did you decide you should be the one to leave?" - Breaking the intimacy, returning to the rational with her inquiry.

"'Cause you don't always play nicely with others." The concept of another group adjusting to his Ninja's idiosyncrasies was both entertaining and worrying.

"And maybe you've moved enough." – The thoughtful, real element to his chivalry.

Her life had been excessively disrupted and disjointed by past events. Tony wasn't about to inflict further displacement unnecessarily.

"Besides, I wouldn't trust your safety to anyone else but Gibbs." His faith in Gibbs was unshakeable on this point.

Ziva's question was a detached comparison; not critical. Technically, self-defense was her specialty. "What about your safety?" - Asserting her right to be equally concerned for Tony.

"I'm better at staying out of trouble than you." Tony wasn't offended and merely offered an alternative opinion.

"Except for this." Ziva shyly acknowledged the extent of his engagement.

"Except for you." – Grinning, he narrowed the context and underlined the strength of feeling.

"You should have discussed it with him, Tony." Ziva superfluous advice highlighted the rift which might have been created. "Why did you not?"

This was a discomforting issue. Tony had disappointed their boss and that was unaddressed. Then there was Vance. Essentially, both Tony's superiors were likely to be pissed at him.

He shook his head. "He would've talked me out of it."

"The job?" Ziva queried – unthinkingly permitting irrational anxiety to bubble to the surface. "Or the relationship?"

"The job." Tony replied very firmly. "Zee-vah?" His reproachful tone was legitimate. "How come he couldn't talk you out of it but I'm somehow suspect?"

"I am sorry." Her apology was immediate and unreserved.

Since they had started the unofficial relationship, this was an area in which Tony and Ziva had improved immeasurably. They relinquished hurts and didn't stubbornly refuse to concede wrong-doing. Of course, it didn't always happen without grief. Nevertheless, saying sorry had become an unspoken agreement for the reduction of misunderstandings.

"It is just that you scared me…." Ziva cautiously expanded the excuse. "I thought you were…."

Tony cut off the admission soothingly; mindful of Ducky's counsel. "I know."

She had mentioned fear, vulnerability again. "However we figure this out, I'm not gonna leave, sweetheart, OK?"

Ziva nodded. Tony wasn't referring to his job and she received the security with a small smile.

"I was trying to stop Gibbs from finding out." – Returning to his reply and shooting her a look of amused accusation. "I could sell Vance a career move. He understands ambition…."

He paused in recall at the debate with Vance; the ploy had been very easy. "I told him I was bored, wanted to move….be my own boss. That kinda stuff."

They were catching up; reconnecting and assimilating motivations. Discovering the missing period from each other's perspectives: out of curiosity and desire for greater empathy.

Tony gazed at her reflectively. "Why'd you tell Gibbs?"

"My bright idea?" Ziva reminded him of the substance of their original conflict. "If Gibbs knew he might say yes….If he did not, then we could devise a different plan."

She reciprocated his look. "I was uncomfortable with deceiving him. And it was not helping."

"Yeah, that sounds like you, Zee-vah." Tony grinned affectionately. "The covert operative who has an ethical objection to lying."

He cocked his head. "Apparently you still have no problem with pick-pocketing though."

Ziva smiled in smug satisfaction. "It achieved my goal."

"Which was?" The see-saw between light and heavy discussion briefly tipped toward levity.

"To make you to talk to me." She had been utterly resolute; Tony would not leave the office today until she had challenged him.

"Guess it was better than a gun to the back of my head." He was teasing.

"That was my second tactic." Ziva's smile widened as her matter-of-fact comment registered.

Tony's remark was a shocked mixture of admiration and trepidation at her tenacity. "Christ, you're not kidding."

Now freed from disquiet over his reasons for a transfer, Ziva was perplexed by the secrecy. "Tony, why would you not tell me?

Tony rubbed the back of his neck. Frowning as he attempted to articulate his process of self-examination. "I thought if I could fix it….give you a concrete solution….it'd make a difference."

He sketched his feelings about the subject. "I really didn't want another fight."

Discontentment with the set-up before the split had become magnified during the interregnum. He recognized one of the reasons he loved his job, was the ability to see Ziva every day. Once the relationship had evolved, just being able to see her was deficient. Tony focused on a long-term goal. In contrast to his customary attitude with girlfriends, Tony wasn't looking toward the end. He found himself trying to think for both of them; seeking a future, not searching for the next conquest. And realized this required a commitment; until he was able to substantiate that bid, he didn't want to inform Ziva. One false start had been sufficiently awful.

"I guess I was trying to prove something to you." – Quietly exposing the self-doubt.

"You have already done that once, to an impossible degree." Ziva patiently supplied reassurance.

"We are even." - Reiterating Tony's rebuttal; there were no burdens of obligations, no need for proof.

"Yes?" She nudged him for a reply.

"Yes." Tony accepted her comforting assessment.

"Except…." Ziva's voice changed to mischievous. "Of course, now you do owe me."

"Seriously?" – Grinning at her usual quick-silver transition in temperament.

"I had to face a very angry Gibbs - alone." She admonished with feigned anger.

Tony shrugged casually. "Well he likes you better than me."

"At the moment he does." – Taking the compliment with an emphasized qualification. "If I can keep his Senior Agent in D.C."

"OK with me." Tony's statement was completely genuine; not moving was a distinct bonus. "So what do you wanna do?"

Ziva stared into space for a few minutes whilst she pondered the options. "Italy could be fun."

Tony sat up abruptly; taken aback by her initial response - although he should have allowed for Ziva's extreme tendencies.

"But only if I could go too." She was notifying Tony of her intention to stay with him no matter what.

"No." She shook her head. "This is home."

They locked eyes.

"We stay." Ziva was adamant.

"OK." Tony conceded. "That's what you want?"

His resolve in consulting her, in making it a joint decision was endearing. Significantly, they were acting as a couple; no more unilateral actions. And it had only taken five years, nine months for the achievement of such a landmark.

"Yes." A spontaneous, warm smile lit her face.

"Then we need to make this work 'cause we're only gonna get one bite at the cherry, Zee-vah." Tony was still adjusting to the new reality – Gibbs was granting them mercy. "We screw it up and there'll be no second chances…."

"I know." Ziva didn't dissent. "But Tony we have done this before. And it will be easier because we only have to be discreet - not secretive." – Pointing out the feasibility and advantages.

"If you're sure?" He had no intention of losing her for the third time.

"I am." She nodded.

He relaxed a little; grinning suggestively as he added a condition. "But you can never, ever wear a skirt to the office 'cause that'd just be unfair."

Ziva attached one of her own with a sultry look. "And I will never be alone with you in the copy room."

Sensing the inclination toward wisdom was degenerating, Tony motioned for the check. After all, it was possible to over-think a problem.

* * *

"You should move. Otherwise our first morning's not gonna go well." Tony sleepily and very reluctantly proposed they get up. "As it is, I stand a pretty good chance of fucking brain damage from the head slap he's planned."

She was laying, full length, on top of him. Tony finally had his wish to wake up with Ziva. When she stopped at her apartment, after leaving the Navy Yard, she had collected clothes and belongings for the next day. Naturally, he would have preferred it if Ziva had chosen a Friday but this was a positive start. And for the first night, since Paris almost exactly twelve months ago, Ziva had slept with no light.

"He is mad at you." Ziva agreed with his predicament.

"Thanks." Tony wasn't impressed by her blunt lack of support.

She wriggled slightly. "Be grateful I am no longer Mossad Liaison and that we do not require Eli's approval." – Taking the glass half full approach. "He would recall me."

Tony's reaction was swift and definitive. "Over my dead body."

"I believe that would not be an unwelcome objective from his point of view." She drily pointed out the obvious.

"Hey, I won the first round. Plus I didn't meet with any mysterious accidents when he was over." Tony opened his eyes. "Think he's starting to like me?"

"No." - Dismissing the notion with amusement, she pushed upright.

"Uh-uh, Zee-vah." The warning was only half-hearted as her thighs slid either side of his.

"You told me to move." There was a glint in her eyes and a wicked smile twitched the corners of her mouth.

"We're gonna be late and that's unprofessional." Despite the protest, Tony's hands were already moving to her hips, holding her against him.

"Correction, Tony, you might be late." Ziva tilted her head, knowing he couldn't resist. "I have a dental appointment. How long do you require for a shower?"

"This morning?" Tony grinned. "Not that long."

Tony was fifteen minutes late and Gibbs' head slap was very, very hard. However, it didn't manage to wipe the grin from Tony's face. Once Ziva arrived, McGee heaved a huge internal sigh of relief. Apparently, the Nitro had been entombed in bubble wrap.

* * *

**Huge thanks to everyone who has posted a review: also to all those who have me on their alert list. The thoughts and feedback are really great and helpful. Make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. Please post a review and tell me likes, dislikes and so on. That's a lot of dialogue so I hope I got it right….**


	22. Doing Things Differently

**A/N: I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**Ch. 22 = The End**

**When I plotted this story out, the idea was everyone would behave slightly differently if Ziva was kidnapped again - which is the reason for the title. With luck, that's how it turned out. **

**I've had tons of fun writing it, I hope you've enjoyed reading it. And I hope I made good on my promise that it would all make sense in the end.**

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"_The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there."_

_L. P. Hartley_

**May 2011**

By spring, their relationship was an open secret. Money was claimed from the various bets on Tony and Ziva's status. And promptly changed hands again; as a new round of speculation commenced. If it would last, how long would it last and by what method Ziva would kill Tony when they broke-up. Strangulation in his sleep was the odds-on favorite in the sub-category. Daring types wondered if the development signaled that Gibbs was mellowing. Since no-one had the nerve to ask, there was no means to collect the winnings.

Much to his surprise, McGee found out in the unlikeliest of ways. Not because Tony was more irrepressibly Tony than usual, nor because Ziva suddenly started glowing with satisfaction. The revelation came, in March, at a funeral. An NCIS Agent had been killed in the line of duty. The man hadn't been someone any of them knew especially well. In that sense, it was not a personal loss. It was more of a 'there-but-for-the-grace-of something' moment. The memorial service had been held on a Saturday afternoon. On their way back to the car, the slowly dispersing groups of mourners mingled and separated McGee from his teammates. He was a little way behind them. Tony and Ziva were walking side by side. They glanced at one another and McGee glimpsed Ziva discreetly take Tony's hand. They carried on walking, arms straight by their sides; if he hadn't seen the move it would be impossible to see the clasped hands. With their backs to him, he couldn't observe the look exchanged. He didn't need to - the tightly entwined fingers said it all. They were providing comfort and affirming their bond; holding onto each other to face the uncertainties of their profession. A group blocked his vision and by the time the view was clear, their hands were apart. When he reached the car, and them, the mood was every day – a perfect shell of cover enclosed whatever was between them.

He was amazed. McGee cast his mind back and tried to think when the individual elements were synthesized into a composite. Certainly the shooting incident had been a watershed but McGee couldn't pinpoint the precise moment things had changed. On reflection he realized there had been a change; subtle but present. Ziva seemed calmer, more secure. Less like a hurt trapped creature: less haunted and defensive. Tony seemed steadier; less like he was constantly searching. He was no longer trying to distract himself with anything and everything to catch a break from a gnawing absence. They still fought over suspects, case details. They still teased each other and McGee mercilessly. Yet now that he came to think about it, the perpetual, delicate balancing act had vanished. When they argued there was no sense the Mayan prophecy might be brought forward by a couple of years.

True to their word, Gibbs could not complain about their conduct. At the office, Tony and Ziva were scrupulously professional. There was no taking of sides – either for, or against – in discussing cases. If one of them was in danger, the reassurance was targeted at each other first. Nevertheless, it was always understated – a look or a smile. Some mornings were, clearly, a little fraught. Generally speaking, what happened at home was kept rigidly quarantined from what happened at the Navy Yard. In truth, the staff knew more about Vance's domestic arrangements than about Tony and Ziva's. As a natural consequence of the relationship, the team's format evolved. Ziva partnered more often with McGee or Gibbs. Since Tony and Ziva's time wasn't confined to work hours; the overwhelming need to be together eased.

Even at office socializing there was no discernible difference. Occasionally, Ziva would lean against Tony or he would put his arm around her. Plans and schedules did tend to be couched in terms of 'we'. They had vacationed in Israel; managing a stiff everybody-on-their-best-behavior lunch with Eli. There was talk of buying a house. That endeavor suffered an inauspicious start because, after the first Saturday, their real estate agent had flatly refused to show them properties together. The spark of divergent personalities still ignited frequently.

Ducky paused beside Gibbs' desk on his way home. Their boss was watching Tony and Ziva leave.

"You knew, Jethro?" He cast a searching look at his friend.

Gibbs looked up. "You telling me you didn't?" - Growling the question back.

Ducky inclined his head; smiling affably in non-committal appreciation. "I might have had an inkling."

As the elevator doors closed, he noticed Gibbs' disapproving stare. "You know, it is a very constant love."

At heart, he was an incurable romantic. Moreover, as a student of humanity, he was able to recognize their connection. "They may have muddled the order somewhat but it has endured nonetheless."

Gibbs nodded. "And when he's Team Leader?" – Gruffly posing the obvious dilemma.

Ducky smiled again. "Oh I believe you'll find Ziva is occupied with other matters by such time."

A gentle premonition there was another act to play out. "You're not planning on retiring within…say the next eighteen months, are you?"

Gibbs cast a surprised glance at Ducky. Realization of the message formed. At some unknown point in the future his team would split - before they were no longer his team. The disruption he wanted to avoid with Rule #12 would happen anyway. For far more pleasant reasons than a nasty break-up, the team would change. And it was beyond his control. Not completely immune to emotions and genuinely fond of his personnel, Gibbs abandoned the attitude of absolute condemnation.

Ducky observed Gibbs' reaction. "Might I inquire, Jethro, as to what changed your mind about your rule?"

"Nothing." The enigmatic reply puzzled Ducky. "They're the exception that proves it."

Always keen to learn more about his fellow man, Ducky absorbed the implication. Gibbs hadn't mellowed. He was merely being practical. The MCRT – at present – wouldn't function effectively without Tony and Ziva. Tony and Ziva wouldn't function if one of them was forced to relocate elsewhere.

"Ah, so Rule #12 still holds then?" He sought clarification for his analysis.

"You thinking of dating a co-worker, Duck?" The joking query was accompanied by a half smile. "'Cause that's a problem…."

Some things do remain unchanged in the past, present and future.

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**Many, many thanks to everyone who has posted a review: especially to those who stuck with me and offered encouragement. I'm sure there were moments you were scratching your heads, saying 'Is there a point to all of this?' Final thoughts and feedback on the story as a whole are very welcome: likes/dislikes, what could be improved or what worked.**

**Also thanks to all those who have me on their alert list. **

**I'm cooking a story on the Ray-Jay mess and S8. Or I might take a break – since I can't read & write [sounds bad] I might read someone else's work for a bit!**


End file.
